Hi, (forum lurker & avid DF player here)! I've begun writing a Dwarfy tale! Well, ordinarily I wouldn't trouble you all with such ramblings but I was just wondering what all you D0rf fans think of it. Worth continuing?
(Note, this is not strictly a Dwarf Fortress tale, I'm just obsessed with all things Dwarfy! But I've most certainly been inspired by DF to some degree!)
*Will update as more is written*
Grolfingir woke suddenly. He opened his eyes hastily, not panicked by the lack of light; there was little to be found here, deep under the earth. Was it day or night? Did it even matter? The dwarf sat up in his bunk, rubbing his eyes wearily. His dreams had been of dark creatures and of the end of worlds. He had dreamt of the Kir’un, the soulless ones, and of things much worse. Comparatively speaking, this had been one of his better nights; there were times when his screaming had brought the chamber maiden from the hall three doors away to his room and woken many others besides. It was not unusual, however, among dwarves to have such nightmares. It was, in fact, commonplace after the Sundering all those centuries ago, which had opened a rift between worlds and sent forth the Kir’un and their dread masters. Rubbing his forehead wearily, he threw the woollen blankets off himself and searched calmly for the lantern stone he kept on the stone table beside his bunk. Shivering, Grolfingir realised his ragged night clothes were sodden with sweat, despite the chill in his bed chamber. He was filled with a desire to change into something dry. The dwarf grunted with satisfaction as his fingers enclosed around the warm lantern stone, magic within exhuming a comforting heat.
“Dum garok,” he spoke in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves and the stone instantly shone a dull purple light which lit up the entire room. It was a small, enclosed space filled primarily with the bunk and table. The walls and floor were carved out of stone, the table hewn out of the rock in which his room had been dug. Grolfingir felt comforted by the sense of enclosure within the mountain hold, inside he felt safe and protected. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like outdoors, with only the crimson clouds between you and the blood-stained sky. The moment after the nightmare is when you feel it most, he reflected and gave silent thanks to the ancestors for building the fortress he was lucky enough to be entombed in, The Hold. It had been built as a sanctuary for his people, and so far it had served its purpose. With a weary stiffness he swung himself out of the bed, wincing as his broad feet made contact with the cold stone. Briefly he held his head in his hands, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. It didn’t take long; he had lived almost his whole life in the gloom of the Hold and his eyes had developed accordingly. When he could see clearly, Grolfingir rose from the bed, grabbing the lantern stone and stumbled sleepily to the door, pushing it open and revealing the rest of his quarters. It was a small home compared with the Thane’s and High Priest’s, but for Grolfingir the space was ample. The Hearth Room, as individual dwarf’s holdings were known, was connected by a central room, which acted as a hallway between the front door, the kitchen, the bedroom and the bathroom. It was dominated by a large stone table, the smooth stone walls such that three dwarves could not walk abreast. Grolfingir has decorated the floor with woollen rugs and had had the wall engraved with carvings from his favourite tales. He remembered the day of his ascension to adulthood, when his home was presented to him as a reward for succeeding the Proving. His father had dug out the complex himself, as was his duty. Some day Grolfingir hoped to present a house to a child of his own. There were a thousand such homes in the Hold and its uniformity comforted Grolfingir. It had always been such and it would always continue to be as long as there was earth under the mountain.
The dwarf broke away from his reverie and continued into the kitchen, speaking words which lit the rock stove standing in the corner of the room; an ancient Stone of Inflammation bursting to life at his familiar tones. Such Stones, like the Lantern Stone, were enchanted with the staunch magic of the dwarves, quite different to the magic once wielded by humans. They were the life blood of the Hold, operating the lanterns providing the light through which its denizens could see and heating the hearths which made the draughty corridors and halls bearable. Grolfingir took a loaf of mountain bread from the kitchen worktop and thrust it into the stone oven; he preferred his breakfast hot. Grolfingir slumped himself down the stone throne, setting his Lantern Stone down in a holster mounted on the wall, its light spreading throughout the whole holding. The dwarf held his head in his hands, thinking of nothing in particular. He continued like this for several minutes until the gravelly smell of the baking loaf filled the room, at which point Grolfingir’s stomach began to grumble violently. Sighing, the dwarf pushed back the throne and grabbed his breakfast, deactivating the Inflammation Stone with a mutter.
Rather than sit himself back down to enjoy his meal the dwarf slipped on his boots and pushed open his front door, leaving the sanctity of his Hearth Room for the draughty hallways of the Hold. He grumbled as he made his way towards the guard post at the entrance to the halls, gnawing at the, quite literally, rock hard Mountain Loaf. Upon arriving at the post he was shocked, if not unsurprised, to find the pair of Clansmen asleep. Grolfingir grunted. He quickly grabbed the nearest dwarf’s war hammer and gave him a firm tap on the back of his head.
“Wh-what?” the dwarf yelled angrily, bursting from his slumber, “Oh, Ironherald, my apologies I were just, um, resting me eyes.”
Grolfingir, otherwise known by the title Ironherald, grunted once more.
“I’ll bet, but for yer own safety don’t let me catchin’ ye’ ‘resting yer eyes’ again. I have a responsibility tae discipline you lot.”
“Of course not, sir! Sorry, sir.”
“Do ye know what time it is, Clansman?”
“Urr,” the dwarf stuttered, before turning round and throwing a silver plate at his fellow guardsman, who awoke far more gracefully than he had and snapped to attention. “Oi, Elfbrains, what time is it?”
“Reckon its a few hours before the rousing sah!”
“He says-”
“I heard what he said!” Grolfingir snapped, brandishing the war hammer menacingly, “Mind if I join ye fer your last few hours of duty? I’ve a hankering for some company.”
“Of course sah! What, nightmares is it?”
“None of your business!” Growled Grolfingir in reply, although they all knew it was true. There were few dwarf kin who didn’t suffer from hideous nightmares from time to time. It was called the ‘hearing’ and although Grolfingir didn’t fully understand it himself, he knew it was something to do about the lamentations of the Ancestors at the purging of the world.
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Topic: Sons of Uldir (A Tale of Dwarves) (Read 659 times)