The Shaper's Sons, Born of Stone
The Sons of Stone are unlike any other people in our World, for they
alone neither age nor breed. Legends say that Dwarves are not born, but
rather that their entire race was molded by the hand of Thurin the
Strong, the truest of the All-Father's great Companions. Crafted from
the Stone of the Earth, the Dwarves were charged by their maker to tend
to the Great Fires that boil in the belly of the World. For most of
recorded history the Dwarves worked in secret, delving vast halls,
building wondrous citadels, and mastering the arts of mining and
forgecraft. In the days since the Turning, the mysterious Dwarves have
finally returned to the surface World, and the peoples of the World
have come in contact with their mysterious ways for the first time in
Ages. There are no females among their kind, and they produce no
offspring. Dwarves do not seem to die of old age, and it may be that
all of them have existed since the day of Creation. When a dwarf dies,
the entire race mourns� for that is one less dwarf that our World shall
ever know.
Their People
Of all the children of the World, Dwarves may be the most remarkable,
and they are certainly among the most recognizable. Whereas all the
other races are made of flesh and blood, Dwarves are fashioned of the
stone they love so well. Individual Dwarves are made of different
stones, from ebon shale to gray granite to pale marble, expertly
crafted into a form reminiscent of Humanity. Short of stature, Dwarves
are the smallest of the World's races, yet also among the strongest. A
Dwarf's stocky body seems nearly as broad as it is tall, covered in
thick masses of carved muscle. While not quite as agile as the average
Human, Dwarves are stronger and much more resilient by far. The
fortitude of the earth is worked into them: Dwarves are blessed with
incredible toughness and almost limitless endurance. Created for life
underground, the glittering gemstone eyes of the Dwarves can see in the
dark (though without detail: for fine work, Dwarves still kindle lights
in their halls). Dwarves do not age: all of them were created at once,
and no one Dwarf is significantly older than any other. While they
never grow older, Dwarves do show signs of wear - many Dwarves have
visible cracks that run across their bodies, or chips missing from
their features. While this wear is almost always repairable, many
Dwarves wear their cracks as a badge of honor, the way other Warriors
cherish scars. Dwarves also show an uncanny uniformity of appearance.
Though there are some variations and each Dwarf is unique in some small
way, all Dwarves are short, heavily muscled, bearded men with long,
thick hair.
When first encountered by the other
peoples of the World, there were many who questioned whether or not
Dwarves were truly living beings, or some kind of fabulous magical
automata. The evidence was confusing and contradictory: while clearly
made of stone, Dwarf limbs move without seams or joints. Furthermore,
Dwarves require food and drink like other living things, and they sleep
(albeit rarely, for only the greatest exertion seems to tire them).
Dwarves are incapable of reproducing themselves, one criterion
traditionally given to living things. No new Dwarves are born, and
Dwarves who were destroyed in previous Ages can never be replaced. Many
Elvish Magi considered Dwarves nothing more than complex constructs
like the murgolems their Animators fashion, not truly living at all.
Conclusive proof did not come until the Turning, when it was discovered
that slain Dwarves rise anew from Trees of Life, just as all the other
races do. Dwarves are still baffled by this phenomenon, but not nearly
so baffled as the Magi and Loremasters who have tried to explain it and
draw therefrom some conclusion about the nature of the living soul.
Their Ways
Dwarves have always enjoyed a sense of unity that the other children of
the World have lacked. Isolated groups of Dwarves toil in the deeps or
under the mountains, each ruled by a Thane, but never in all their long
history have two Dwarf nations warred against each other. Dwarf holds
may nurture rivalries between each other, to see which can finish an
engineering project or produce finer steel, but these rivalries never
turn into conflicts. Because all of the Dwarves were fashioned by
Thurin, every Dwarf is a brother to every other, and the Dwarven family
is likely the most harmonious in all the World.
Dwarfholds are ruled by Thanes, but
many of the most important decisions are made by the community as a
whole. Every Dwarfhold has within it a massive hall called the Hall of
Voices, large enough to hold the entire local population. In frequent
meetings, minor matters are decided by votes of acclamation, with the
Thane having final say. These meeting are usually subdued, but not
always - loud arguments have been known to break out, and there are no
rules of decorum: every Dwarf may speak, and give his opinions as
loudly as he wishes. Thanes are chosen by community vote, based on
merit and ability. The post of Thane has no fixed term, and Dwarves
will frequently resign from the post as conditions change. A warrior
might become Thane when the hold declares war on a nearby Orc tribe,
for example, and remain Thane until the hostilities end, when he
willingly steps down. Thanes are advised by a council of the best and
wisest Dwarves in the hold, one of whom must be a Priest of Thurin.
Outsiders are often amazed at how harmonious Dwarven politics can be,
and at how much shouting and bellowing there is when parties do
actually disagree!
Of all the children of the World,
none can match the Dwarves in skill and craft. To them alone did Thurin
reveal the deepest secrets of the forge, and Dwarven steel is still the
finest in the world. Only their Forge Masters can craft weapons and
armor of adamant, hardest of all metals. Masters of all forms of
metalcraft, Dwarves are cunning goldsmiths, drawing gold and platinum
into wire or crafting chains of precious metal as thin as human hair.
Dwarves are also natural born miners and masons, with mines and tunnels
that extend hundreds of miles under hill and mountain. Dwarvish
architecture is stunning is its scope, yet remarkably uniform. Dwarves
love symmetry, and favor grand spaces and heavy columns. Many lords who
live beneath the sun and sky would pay dearly for a Dwarf's help in
designing or building a castle.
Other races tend to regard Dwarves
as stoic and grim, as emotionless as the stone they're carved from.
These impressions may be correct at first glance, but belie a Dwarf's
true nature. Dwarves live for work, and have an amazing resolve that is
easily misktaken for stubbornness. Dwarvish minds are not so keen as
those of Men or Elves, and tend to follow lines of reasoning that
baffle Roofless Folk (what the Dwarves call all people who live their
lives under the sky). Once a Dwarf has set himself to a task or
purpose, however, he acts with absolute resolution, and a
single-mindedness few beings can comprehend. It seems as if Dwarves
have a physical need to complete tasks assigned to them, whether by
themselves or an authority they respect. If interrupted while working,
a Dwarf will do whatever he can to end the distraction, and may finally
fly into a rage if the interference continues. Dwarves have long
memories, and are very good at holding grudges.
Despite their strict focus, Dwarves
are far more than stoic machines. Dwarves have a love of beauty and art
that rivals any Elf's, and have a tireless appetite for music. Dwarves
sing while they forge, while they mine, and while they make war.
Dwarves have spent most of the World's history in isolation, and hence
know little of the ways of surface dwellers. Dwarves are on their guard
when dealing with tall folk, and the sight of the open sky makes them
nervous. Most humor is lost on them, and most surface dwellers can find
Dwarves difficult to communicate with. The few who have truly
befriended a Dwarf, however, or ventured into their halls, have seen a
very different side to their demeanors. A Dwarf is forthright in
everything he does: loyal to a fault, dedicated to his work, merry at
feast, and grim as death in battle.
Their Lore
"You have done me a great honor, worthy host, while I have stayed and
studied here. I thank you, Loremaster, for the gift that you have given
me. The history of Suns and Stars and Men passed by my people as we
labored in the deep, and we saw it not. Now, through your gift to me,
the Sons of Thurin shall know much that has been hidden to us. We shall
be richer for it. I shall repay you with as dear a treasure. I, Gourim
Granitehammer, son of Thurin, servant of Thane Dolmurg of the Halls of
Barankoll, shall tell you the long tale of the Dwarves. Listen, learn
our long history, and be richer for it.
We are the Children of Thurin the
Shaper. Our bodies were wrought at the heart of the World before the
Sons of Men were created, before the Sun was kindled, before the Elves
were born and before even their Green Mother awakened. While the World
first flowered we worked at the forge. While the Dragon brooded in
darkness we worked at the forge. While the hordes of Chaos ravaged the
World, we worked at the forge. As the Elvish Empire perished, we worked
at the forge. Only when the World was sundered stone from stone, only
then did our labors pause. Through all the World's Ages we have honed
our Craft, and we alone have forgotten nothing.
I will tell you all that I have
seen, and what my brothers told me of events I did not witness. Mark my
words well. I am a Dwarf. I do not lie.
Few made of flesh know that the
Dwarves are the eldest of all the Children of the World, older even
than the Elves. The hands of the Shaper wrought my brothers and I in
the Age Before, when the surface of the World was dark and barren, and
Braialla the Mother of Elves still slept. Thurin went into the deeps at
his Master's command, and there he fashioned us to help him in his
great work. The Dwarves were created under stone, wrought of the stone,
and we have always felt at ease in the deeps, under the Roof of
Aerynth, at home in the dark and stillness. To us the open sky is
strange and terrible. Thurin gave unto us his Strength, his Will, and
above all his love of Craft. From him came our desire to shape the
World of Matter into new forms, to bring order and meaning to all we
touch. In the beginning we were little more than tools, knowing only
what our Maker had taught us. We existed then only as extensions of his
will, yet we were at peace with our labors. In the Ages since we have
learned, and grown, and changed. We are not murgolems, stones that move
through Magic. We are not Mortals, who have both male and female forms,
and to who must sire children to live forever. We are Dwarves, and that
has always been enough.
As long as Dwarves have existed, we
have served Thurin's will, doing great labors in his name. The Shaper's
children do not reckon the same Ages as the dwellers of the Roofless
World. Our history begins with the Age of the Hammer, when with hammers
and chisels we accomplished the first great task Thurin set before us.
At the core of the World we delved the Halls of Haganduur, grandest of
all dwellings, mightiest of fortresses, first home of our people.
Haganduur is lost now, broken and cast into the Void by the Turning,
but I can remember it well, for I aided in its making. As we worked
Thurin taught us the ways of stone, how to smite it and carve it and
shape it, how to see its nature, hear its whispers, and love its
wisdom. As we learned the craft of masonry we learned about ourselves.
Thurin worked beside us, and told us many tales of his Master, the
All-Father, who had taught our father all his Craft and given him the
love of creating and making. As Thurin served His will, so we served
Thurin's.
When at last that work was done,
Thurin sent many of my brothers out into the deep. For the depths of
Aerynth were deeply flawed, filled with faults and fractures and rivers
of ice. Thurin ordered the greatest masons to refashion and repair the
deeps; shoring up weak places, widening narrow rifts, and buttressing
the walls of the World. The stonewrights tunneled their way through the
heart of the World, delving great halls and holds, building walls and
braces, and bridging chasms unfathomable. So we came to know and love
the eternal stone body of Aerynth itself. Tireless in our labors, we
sang as we worked, and the deeps resounded with the music of our
hammers and our voices.
As we worked, we found the bones of
terrible beasts locked within the stone, bones made of iron and silver
and adamant. These we showed to our creator, and Thurin led the wisest
and keenest of the Dwarves to the greatest hall of Haganduur. There,
with their aid, he built a mighty forge, and the Chosen worked beside
him, learning from his skill. Their hands wrought the anvil, hollowed
the furnace, and made the tools, all under the Shaper's watchful eye.
When the work was done, Thurin kindled the fire in the mighty furnace,
and he was glad. Under the Shaper's guidance the seven Chosen became
the Forge Masters, and they were given the greatest part of Thurin's
Craft and Wisdom. At last we brought the metal bones into the forge,
and Thurin taught us how to break them, and grind them, and smelt them
into ore. We learned the ways of metal, how to mine it and smelt it and
shape it, how to see its beauty, hear its wisdom, and love its power.
As we learned the craft of metalwork we learned about our destiny.
In the World above Braialla
awakened, but we saw her not, nor heard her song when the world
flowered. There was no great Twilight in the deep, no Spring. The Elves
and Centaurs were born, and the Gods walked the face of Aerynth, but we
knew them not. They had no time for stifling darkness, and so they
never saw the wonders that we wrought. They did not thank us for
shoring up the mountains and the plains, for stifling the tremors of
the ground and quenching the volcanoes' fury, but we did not miss their
gratitude. The Dwarves did not do any of these things to earn thanks or
gratitude. At first we worked because our father had commanded us to,
and we knew nothing but his will. But as my people mastered the ways of
Craft, so did we discover Joy. We needed no shining Moons or glimmering
stars. All we needed were our hammers, and the stones of anvils to ply
them on.
While the Elves of the Twilight
Kingdom built their mighty palaces under the Moons and stars, a team of
Dwarvish miners delved deep into strange, foul caverns, and came into a
vast chamber. There, far from the Halls of Haganduur, they found the
coiled, sleeping form of the Dragon, terrible even in its slumber. The
miners quickly returned with the news, and we called for the Shaper,
who went and looked upon this thing. Thurin summoned the All-Father,
and He marveled at the great beast, asleep at the core of the World.
The All-Father wondered what lore this hidden thing might know, but
Thurin was troubled, and liked it not. The Shaper commanded all his
children to withdraw into their halls and prepare for disaster. We
readily obeyed. So it was that we waited in hiding when the Dragon
rose. Its fury rocked the deeps and shattered many of our greatest
works, but our halls and holds were built strong and sure, and we
weathered the terrible storm unharmed.
I am told that a mighty battle was
fought on the surface of the World, a fight that destroyed a kingdom,
killed a Goddess, and ignited a Sun. No Dwarf saw that struggle, for we
held true to our father's command. Finally Thurin returned to the Halls
of Haganduur. There, with the Forge Masters to aid him, the Shaper
undertook the greatest of his works, and all of Dwarvenkind helped him
in this labor, and wondered at the Shaper's skill. So it was that
Thurin forged the Sword of Legend, the blade an Elf named Shadowbane.
To finish the blade, Thurin maimed himself, and when his work was done
he sundered the great anvil in the heart of his forge. So it came to
pass that the Shaper ruined his craft for the good of the World. We,
his children, watched Thurin and remembered his sacrifice, and so we
learned Responsibility and Honor. Thurin vowed that he would never
raise his hammer in a forge again, and so it has fallen to us, his
children, to craft the weapons of power to overcome darkness and evil.
The Shaper bid us heal the hurts the Dragon had done to the deeps, and
dam the flow of the Terror's foul blood before it marred and poisoned
Aerynth's heart. He also commanded the Dwarves to forge other mighty
weapons, and guard against the Dragon's return. Then Thurin left us,
wandering down roads none have ever known.
The childhood of my race had ended,
and the World had changed forever. So ended the Age of the Hammer, and
so began the Age of the Forge. For the timeless span of the Age of
Twilight and through more than five thousand years after, we have
honored our father's command. The enchanted blades you folk of the
Roofless World cherish so much are our work, and the least of our
works. The greatest still lie hidden.
We kept to our labors, unseen,
unheard, and undreamed of by the children of the Roofless World. Those
of us who did not keep to the forge went back into the deeps, and
delved through the core of the World again, repairing much that had
been broken and marred when the Dragon awoke. The Master Masons and
Forge Masters worked together, devising mighty works that channeled the
flow of the Dragon's blood and barred the way to its foul lair. We were
alone in our labors, as we had always been, but soon the Dwarves found
new company in the darkness. Malog the Warrior had come to live in the
shadows of the deep, huddled in a cavern, mourning all that he had
lost. My people found him there and praised him, for he was the brother
to our father, a Godling Companion to the All-Father Himself. If we had
known the pain and bitterness that would come of that meeting, we would
have left the Warrior to rot in darkness.
Once Malog had been the handsomest
of all the Gods, but when the sun was kindled the Warrior had been
horribly maimed, and his face was ravaged by the Dragon's fire. In his
pain and shame Malog hid from sight, but our father had come to him and
given him a jeweled mask to hide his terrifying visage. Malog was
grateful for the gift, and so he met the Dwarves gladly, and held us in
high honor. Saying that he was anxious to repay Thurin's generosity,
the Warrior came to the Halls of Haganduur, where he lodged among us
with great honor. There he received many rich gifts and took comfort
from our hospitality. There he taught us the ways of Arms, and so
Thurin's children came to know the discipline of steel. We learned how
to fight and how to kill, and the ways of mace and maul and axe. As we
learned the Arts of War we Dwarves discovered our Power. All the while
Malog carefully studied our ways, learned the secrets of our halls, and
laid the foundations of future treacheries. If only we had known! How
many Dwarves would have been spared their place in the Song of
Mourning? How many of our holds and halls would still endure?
The Warrior was cunning, but even
his fair mask and clever words could not hide the darkness in his soul.
As he taught us the ways of War, Malog ever warned us against the
treachery and guile of the surface dwellers. Malog reviled the Elves
above all, cursing their arrogance and wickedness. He praised Thurin
with shining words, but repented that the Shaper's greatest work should
be sullied by giving it to an Elf instead of someone more deserving.
The Warrior tried to plant seeds of envy and avarice in our hearts, but
these took no root. Finally, Malog urged the Thanes to march against
the hateful Elves and take back Shadowbane. Why, asked the Thanes,
should the Dwarves do such a thing? Shadowbane was a gift given to the
Elves by Thurin himself. At this Malog flew into a rage, and cried out
the Thurin had been wrong to squander his mighty gift. The full measure
of Malog's evil was finally revealed, and the first of his great wrongs
against the Dwarves was thwarted. The Thanes looked beyond the Maimed
God's deceptions to the truth: Malog had not taught us to be warriors
for our good, but for his. The Warrior intended that we should be his
unwitting pawns, and win Shadowbane for him, so that his hand alone
would wield the Sword of Destiny. Malog had tried to lure us from our
labors and turn all Dwarvenkind against Thurin's will. He failed. And
so Thurin's children gained their first Enemy, and the Maimed God has
always been the most hated of our foes. The Thanes exiled him from our
halls, for it was not yet in our nature to punish or kill our enemies.
When Malog had departed we set
aside our weapons and returned to our labors. Thurin finally returned
to us, and his homecoming was joyful and glorious. The Shaper told his
children the long tale of all that had transpired above, of the
treachery of the Elves, the rise of the Beast Lords, and a terrible war
called the Taming. We listened, and afterward the Thanes told Thurin of
Malog and of the intrigues the Warrior had tried to spin among us.
Thurin was troubled at the news, for some of Malog's words had proven
true. Thurin had indeed judged the Elves unworthy of the Sword of
Destiny. The blade had taken Thurin's maimed left hand in battle, but
Thurin did not mourn its loss. And then the Dwarves were freely given
the prize Malog had bid us take in battle, for our father had taken
Shadowbane from the field, and brought the Shining Sword with him to
Haganduur. Thurin commanded us to keep the sword safe forever, and so
we delved a great vault to keep it in, deep, strong, and hidden. The
Forge Masters fashioned a new hand for the Shaper, a strong, shining
hand of silver. We showed him all of our works and accomplishments.
Thurin was glad, but kept to his oath and did not return to his forge.
Soon after, the All-Father set Time
into motion. Deep underground we felt Aerynth tremble, and we sensed
the mighty change. Thurin told the wisest among us the meaning of what
had happened, and commanded all Dwarves to henceforth keep the count of
days. And so we did. We carved all that we had seen and heard onto the
walls of our halls, fixing our history into stone forever. We also
bored great shafts upward, from the heart of each Dwarfhold through
stone and earth to the very surface of the World. These shafts looked
up into to the strange and endless sky, and beneath each shaft we
placed great crystals, and mirrors of polished bronze. And so each day,
from the very first even unto this, the Sun in its wandering shines
down upon the deeps, and its light is seen even in our darkest vaults.
We mark its passing, and carve a sign onto walls of the hardest stone.
Even as we began to count the days
Thurin gave his children our next great task, a labor we came to rue.
Thurin chose the hardiest of our kind, and led them out of the deeps to
the surface, under the terrible sky. Only once before had any Dwarf
left the world of stone to walk under the endless sky, when Therron
Bellowstone beheld the creation of Men and learned the Art of
Animation. Thurin led nearly a hundred of our mightiest to the very
foot of the Cliffs of Fate. There lay the fragments of the
weltwyrdangssaga that had been carved and broken by the Giants. Thurin
bade his children gather all the fragments, which he named Runestones,
and bear them back to Haganduur for safekeeping. Then Thurin left his
children again, and soon we learned the true scope of the great task
set before us. The Runestones lay scattered all over the wide face of
Aerynth, and would be long in the gathering. Thurin made us well,
however, and we were undaunted by the difficulty of the task. Alas! We
had hardly begun our new labor when it was cruelly interrupted.
Our work quickly drew the wrath of
the Giants, who claimed the Runestones for their own, and refused to
hear of our errand. Nearly a hundred of the first gatherers were killed
that grim day, broken by the Giants. Never before had any of Thurin's
children died. When the grim news reached Haganduur, all Dwarvenkind
was stunned. Thurin was gone and could give us no guidance, and so for
the first time we found ourselves hindered in our labor. We had known
labor, and wonder, and joy. Now we learned anger. Thrangdan
Stoneshoulders claimed the name Thrangdan Giant Killer, put down his
pick and took up an axe. Legions of Dwarves followed him, and soon the
frozen North flowed red with Giant's blood, and our foes learned to
their sorrow just how well Malog had taught us. The World had changed
again: Dwarves had been killed, and for the first time they walked in
the Roofless World and made war with its folk. The Age of the Forge was
gone forever, and in its wake came the Age of the Axe, the longest and
most terrible Age my people have ever known.
Our quarrel with the Giants
exploded into war, the great conflict your Scholars call the War of the
Stones. Your folk know only one war, but we Dwarves remember many. They
raged for nearly a millennium, and by the time they ended the Dwarves
would count all the other Children of the World among their foes. The
Age of the Axe was a time of many changes for my people: we learned
quickly to adapt to a World that was strange to us, and we learned
quickly to steer our own course, for Thurin was not there to guide us.
In the beginning the War of Stones went well for my people, for many
and mighty were our weapons. Master Animators carved legions of
murgolems to defend our halls, and our Warriors had learned many
secrets from Malog. But suddenly the tide turned, and the Giants began
to win unexpected victories. Entire holds fell to their ruinous
attacks, and the Song of Mourning grew long indeed. The Thanes and War
Masters were sorely troubled, and soon we learned how the Giants had
come to press our folk so sorely.
The Giants had found a new savior
and Patron, a God that granted them great power and promised victory in
battle. Their new master was none other than Malog the maimed God, who
had finally found a set of pawns. Malog had learned that Shadowbane was
now hidden in the Halls of Haganduur, and so he drove the Giants
against us, hoping to batter his way to the Sword of Destiny. The
Warrior remembered well all the maps he had seen in Haganduur, and led
the Giants to many of our hidden holds, where they broke down our gates
and walls and plundered our works to feed the Maimed God's greed.
Entire mountains were broken in that war, and in the face of the great
assault we withdrew, using the body of Aerynth as our fortress and
shield. No Giant could walk the narrow road to Haganduur, and our
defenses held against the terrible onslaught. In time the Giants drew
the wrath of both the Elves and men, and were forced to turn their
attentions away from us. I am told that their feuds with the Elves and
the Northmen nearly destroyed the entire Giant race, and that in time
they renounced Malog, turning their back on the Maimed God. As for the
Dwarves, we had learned two powerful lessons: it is sometimes better to
outlive your enemies than outfight them, and the peoples of the
Roofless World will forever be divided, warring one upon the other. It
is a weakness.
In the wake of our war with the
Giants, groups of Rune Gatherers journeyed far and wide over the
surface of Aerynth. For the first time since our creation Dwarves
walked among the other peoples of the World, who found us strange and
wonderful. The Gatherers met the Centaurs, and engaged in trade with
the Northmen and the Tall Men of Ardan. Remembering Thurin's tales, we
were cautious in our dealings with the Elves of the Deathless Empire,
but even they were willing to trade Runestones for the secrets of
Craft. All the World's Children entered into bargains with us, and we
traded our knowledge of Craft, stone, and steel for the Runestones we
had been tasked to gather. Master Smiths served Human Kings and Elvish
Lords, forging weapons and armor for them the likes of which had never
been seen under Sun and Sky. It was a time of peace and prosperity, but
all too soon it ended.
The Elves, as is their nature, were
suspicious of our errand, and wondered why the Runestones were so
important. In time, their Wizards learned to sense and master the power
locked inside the stones, and soon all the Children of the World were
bonding themselves to Runestones, changing their natures and their
destinies. The lure of power was too great: the Centaurs, Elves, and
Men suddenly turned against us, breaking their word, shattering our
agreements, and hoarding the stones. Where once all the Races but one
had been our friends, we now found ourselves beset on every side. The
greatest Dwarves living all gathered in the Hall of Voices at
Haganduur, and there we argued over our new dilemma. Deceit and
deception are not in Thurin's nature, and they have ever been anathema
to his children. We were baffled and dismayed that our former friends
and allies had broken their word to us, and without the guidance of
Thurin we knew not how to proceed.
And so it was that as before when
the Dwarves first felt the wrath of the Giants, one Dwarf stepped
forward and chose a new destiny for our people. Doran Diamondeyes,
mightiest and wisest of the Priests of Thurin, shouted out over the
din, in a voice like thunder. The deeds and motives of the Roofless
Ones mattered not, for they were beyond all reckoning, the great Dwarf
said. Only the end result of their action mattered: the Surface Folk
were trying, in their greed, to thwart the will of Thurin, as the
Giants had before them. The children of Thurin, he proclaimed, must
deal with this new threat as they dealt with the Giants of old: with
the Axe! And so all Dwarvenkind mustered again for war, and we surged
out of our hidden holds and fought the Men of Ardan, the Elves of the
Deathless Empire, and even the Centaurs of the Vast Plains. The War of
Stones began anew, and in earnest. We emptied the armories of Haganduur
and bore our mightiest weapons into the fray.
Our courage and our resolve never
wavered � we are Dwarves, after all. What fear had we of death,
provided we could die in the service of Thurin's will? And die we did,
by the hundreds and thousands. Our weapons were powerful beyond
reckoning, and our might and skill were great indeed, but even the
greatest Warriors of the Age of the Axe could not hope to stand against
so many foes. The power of the Titans, the spells of the Sidhe, and the
might of the Horse Lords were more than even we could withstand. Many
of the greatest and mightiest Dwarves who ever lived quickly fell in
the conflict, and the scourge our enemies visited on our holds made the
former onslaught of the Giants seem feeble and weak. Thus began the
darkest chapter of our history, though we knew not just how dark it
would become. Finally, the Elvish Hosts carved their way into the deeps
like a sword of fire, and drew nigh even unto Haganduur. Doran
Diamondeyes led the final great sortie to meet the foes, and so two
great armies met in a vast cavern, and there they joined in the final
battle of the War of Stones. In that bitter fight the full extent of
our doom was finally revealed.
The eyes of the Elves are keen, and
the spells of the Sidhe have the power both to conceal and to reveal.
So it was that in the midst of the fray, Elvish sorceries pierced the
veils woven about Thurin's highest priest, and his true shape was
revealed. In the midst of our lines stood no Dwarf at all, but Malog
the Maimed God, who had learned to hide his true shape with the very
mask our father had wrought for him! And so all of Malog's treacheries
and schemes were made plain: the Warrior had failed to destroy Thurin's
children from without, so he tried a second time to destroy us from
within. Long afterward we learned how we had been deceived: how Malog
had killed Doran Diamondeyes years before and stood in his place,
hoping to gain access to the vault where Shadowbane was kept. When this
failed, he goaded our race into a hopeless war, thinking the Sword of
Destiny would fall into his hands once we had been destroyed. But the
Maimed God's plans miscarried, for he was revealed too soon. In his
rage he fell upon both Dwarves and Elves, and none could withstand his
fury.
At that darkest moment Arak
Helmsplitter, second only to Thrangdan Giant Killer in the ranks of
Dwarvish heroes, took his mighty hammer and struck the great column
that rose in the center of the cavern. The entire roof collapsed,
burying Malog along with both armies, Elvish and Dwarvish alike. It was
a bitter sacrifice, and many great Dwarves died, but the invasion of
Haganduur was thwarted and the schemes of Malog were undone. When word
came back of Malog's treachery, the Thanes decided that Dwarvenkind had
lost its way, and that the War of Stones was not Thurin's will but
utter folly. We abandoned all our holds save Haganduur, shut fast their
gates, and hid their doors. As we had done before against the Giants,
the Dwarves would withdraw to our great fortress, and leave the
Roofless Ones to slaughter each other under the terrible Sky. Thurin
had given us eternal life: we would use it as our weapon, and when all
our foes were long dead we would emerge, and gather the rest of the
Runestones from our enemies' tombs.
And so we remained locked in our
hidden fortress as the Hordes of Chaos raged across the face of
Aerynth. We felt the shocks and tremors of the War of the Scourge, but
the legions of Chaos never reached the deeps, and when the call went
out for all the Children of the World to join the Grand Alliance, we
heeded it not. We waited, and from what you have told me it sounds as
if the scourge of Chaos nearly did destroy our enemies for us. We
waited and worked at our forges, safe and secure, confident in our
self-imposed exile. We were perhaps too confident.
The War of the Scourge had nearly
ended when we discovered that Shadowbane's vault was empty. The Sword
of Destiny, our sacred charge, had been stolen! We feared that Malog
had finally triumphed despite all our efforts, and the mightiest among
us left Haganduur, returning to the Roofless World to seek news of the
sword's fate. The few who returned bore grim news indeed: they told
tales of a ravaged world, defiled and despoiled by Chaos. We learned
that a Human hero had stolen Shadowbane, only to have it taken from him
by an Elvish queen. Though our heroes searched far and wide for her,
divinations revealed that Thurin's sword had passed beyond the bounds
of Aerynth, out of our reach forever. As we realized that we had failed
our father, the Dwarves at last learned despair. We sealed our gates
again, and waited for the final victory of Chaos. The All-Father
returned, but we saw Him not. He called Thurin to His side for the
final battle, but we heard Him not. We waited in the darkness,
pondering long the lessons that history and fate had taught us. The War
of the Scourge ended, but we kept to our seclusion. No Dwarf joined the
celebrations, or helped the Roofless Folk rebuild. We waited, and we
watched, working at our forges and brooding in our halls. Though the
Dwarves had known peace in our seclusion for centuries, the Age of the
Axe had not yet ended, for there was one war left for my folk to fight,
when our greatest enemy rose against us for the third time. We had
hoped that Arak's sacrifice had destroyed Malog's evil forever. We were
wrong.
You have told me tales of the War
of Ashes, when the Fallen Thing that had been Malog the Maimed God
returned to Aerynth with his Twisted Breeds. The conflict that ravaged
the world of Sun and Sky early in your Age of Kings was but the
faintest echo of the true fight that raged in the deep. While Morloch
sent swarms of Orcs and Ogres to trouble the Children of the World, he
led the great hosts of the Twisted Breeds to the ruins of Dwarfholds
left empty since we felt the fury of the Giants. In hordes innumerable
they clawed and fought their way through our tunnels and caverns,
seeking the way to Haganduur and Shadowbane. When Morloch's brood came
at last to Haganduur we broke their siege, and our Warriors rushed
forth again to battle, and their might had not diminished. Morloch's
new servants were no match for our Warriors who had been tempered by
the War of Stones, and the caverns were choked with the foul bodies of
our enemies. At last Morloch himself came forth, sweeping through the
deep like a plague, and none could withstand his fury. In shadow and
flame the Maimed God reached the gates of Haganduur, and cracked them
with his mighty fists.
The strength of the Fallen God
would have broken our first and greatest hold, but then he stopped, for
Thurin was there. At long last, after millennia of darkness and doubt,
the Shaper returned to his children in their hour of greatest need.
Thurin asked the Maimed God why he came to Haganduur where he was not
welcome. Morloch hissed in his rage and envy that he had come for the
Sword of Destiny. Shadowbane could never have been forged without his
help, he raved, and the greatest of Thurin's works should never have
been squandered on mere mortals. Morloch was the Warrior: the sword
should have been his by right. Thurin said but four words to the Lord
of the Orcs: "It is not here." And Morloch's rage abated, and he turned
and walked out of the deeps, for he knew that Thurin would never lie.
Morloch returned to the Roofless World, and you have taught me what
befell him there. There are many of my folk who will be glad to hear
it.
After the Fallen God departed
Thurin came again into Haganduur, and there we told him of our pride,
our errors, and our loss. Thurin only smiled, and proclaimed that at
last his children had come of age, for we knew now both Glory and
Sacrifice, and while we knew the joy of Duty, we had learned how
destructive blind loyalty could be. He forgave us our errors, and for
the first time since the creation of the Dwarves, he asked for our aid
as friends, not as servants. Our World had changed again. The Age of
the Axe had ended, and the Age of the Chain had begun.
You seem surprised, honorable host,
by the name. Do you think that somehow my people became slaves after
Thurin's return? Quite the opposite. Our father's return freed us to
earn our destiny. Nay, this Age gains its name from the first request
Thurin made of us. He asked the Dwarves to set aside their axes and
return to the forge. Instead of blades or weapons, Thurin asked us to
fashion chains, great chains of adamant with links the size of horses.
Even though Thurin had freed us from his will, we were still honored to
be his children, and happy to comply. As we worked, Thurin withdrew to
the lowest vault of Haganduur, where all of the collected Runestones
were kept. There he set his great mind to pondering the fragments of
the All-Father's great saga, a puzzle that could, if pieced together
properly, reveal the course of the future. And so we worked, and all
the while we waited, and our Priests worked auguries and divinations,
for Thurin had said that Shadowbane would return to Aerynth, and that
we must be ready for that day.
Nearly three centuries had passed
when at last the auguries of the wise were answered. Shadowbane had
returned to the World: the voices of Archons and the very stones
themselves whispered to us the mighty tale of the Field of Rennelind,
where Shadowbane laid the Deathless Empire low. The shame of Beregund's
theft still burned in our hearts, and we longed for the chance to
finally avenge that black deed. The Dwarvish Hosts assembled, ready to
make war on Cambruin's High Kingdom, but Thurin emerged from his
studies and bid us stop. At last the puzzle had fallen into place, and
though many fragments of the future were lost forever, Thurin had
learned Cambruin's true nature and his grim fate. The Shaper saw the
storm that was coming, and knew what must be done. Thurin revealed some
of the grim destiny he had read to a few of our Thanes and heroes, but
the whole story he alone knows. With dread and fear in his voice the
Shaper bid us put down our weapons, and take up instead the great
chains we had fashioned for him. Thurin declared that the time had come
to abandon Haganduur: he urged us to take all of our treasures (save
the Runestones, which he claimed) and return to the wider deeps, taking
back our holds long abandoned. The great chains must run from hold to
hold, and be braced against the strongest parts of Aerynth's core.
As the War of Tears raced toward
its bloody end we worked, and soon miles of heavy chains looped through
the deepest tunnels, anchored to the oldest, hardest stones. When this
work was finished, Thurin gathered all his children together for one
last time. He told us to return to our halls, and seal them, and wait.
A storm was coming, greater and more terrible than the rising of the
Dragon, and the times ahead would be dark and terrible. We must endure,
and work one last great labor, the hardest our race shall ever know.
The Shaper warned that he would not be there to guide us, but he knew
our Skill and Craft and Will would be enough. Then Thurin left us for
the last time, and all of my people scattered to their holds, and
waited for the storm. It was not long coming.
Thus came the Turning, when the
World was shattered. For four Ages we have toiled in the deeps, secure
in the certainty that the Stone, the hard flesh of Aerynth, was eternal
and unchanging. To see the core of the World broken was more terrifying
for us than the Dragon. Countless Dwarves were destroyed, for the deeps
were ravaged worse than the lands of the Sun. The Halls of Haganduur
were broken, flooded with the Dragon's blood. Countless halls were
lost, as the fragments of the World drifted away into the Void. But the
Dwarves were ready. The great chains they forged had long been
finished, and when the World was broken the chains held fast, keeping
the fragments close, if not together. When the storm had finally
passed, the Thanes and heroes Thurin had counseled told the rest of us
that a new labor was at hand. The Shaper had given one final task to
his children: we must return to the Roofless World, and walk among
strangers who had been our bitter enemies. Somewhere amidst the chaos
and turmoil, there exists the secret that can make Aerynth whole again.
Why had the World had broken? The portions of the giant's saga that
might have given the answers were too badly broken to read, or else
they have been lost forever. We must learn all we can of the history of
the Roofless World, so that we might finally understand this calamity
and reverse it.
And so the Age of the Chain, as we
call it, continues, and shall until Aerynth is reforged and the chain
is needed no more. For a century Dwarves have walked the surface of the
World once again, hiring out our skills as masons, mercenaries, and
blacksmiths, listening carefully to every piece of news and legend we
can find about the Turning. Our piety and devotion has drawn many to
the Holy Church of the All-Father, where as Prelates we can read
ancient histories unguessed by our folk, and as Crusaders we can hold
the tide of blood and darkness at bay. The restoration of the World may
seem an impossible task, but we have set ourselves to it, and we remain
as as steadfast and determined as we were the very moment we first drew
breath. Thurin waits for us at the broken World's heart, and we will
not fail him."