The king was listless. The wars had been going well enough in truth, but despite this the people were sullen and unhappy, displeased with the outcomes of recent events. Had they known the full extent of losses suffered in centuries prior they might appreciate their current position. But even the current mountain-home was not more than fifty years old, and engravings and legends from previous years were hard to come by. The mountains and hills were still perilous, despite all their efforts.
It's not that his people were ungrateful, nor unhappy outright, but rather suffered from a malaise of spirit that the king feared only miraculous successes could dispel. That, or perhaps something more basic. A rekindling of the dwarven spirit of old, a rejuvenation by feeling and hearing and seeing past greatness. The king had sent off many adventurers in the past, seeking for the lost artifacts of old, or searching for the fabled hidden treasure city. Only one such group that he had sent contained a true historian, a scholar from the School of the Founders no less, one versed in oral history as well as written, that history which had survived the shattering of the world and brutal wars which followed.
He'd sent for that historian personally, provided him with all the supplies that he could possibly need, and seen fit to assign six of his own personal Ragnaachi, elite-warrior bodyguards, to accompany him. The task he'd been given was simple. Revisit the shattered fortressess of past antiquity. Collect all the histories available, by engraving or tome or any other method available. The king has fretted much as they were gone first one year, then five, then ten with little news for good or ill. Then one surprising winter day the historian had returned. Only one of his original guards remained, though he had gained a few others somehow on the way. And all he had with him was naught but a backpack and a few trinkets. No artifacts, no mighty weapons. Still, when the king met with him his eyes gleamed and a wide smile graced his worn face.
The king simply asked:"Have you found what I sent you for?"
Those in attendance and in-waiting, those guards and soldiers with the king knew nothing of the quest, and the king had long since decided it should remain so. Wearily the historian nodded, but his eyes spoke of something more, and the king saw that and knew. He had found a great treasure indeed. Wealth beyond imagining.
Late that night, when the fortress was quieter, the king paid a visit to his subject, the aged soldier standing guard in front of his door nodding briefly as he passed. The historian had been settled in one of the royal rooms, as befitted a scholar and philosopher, though they commonly ignored such trappings. His worn and threadbare clothes had been replaced with fresh, clean clothes and a fine, jewel studded flask was in the process of being emptied as the king entered.
The king waited as the flask was drained. One simply did not interrupt a drinking dwarf, not in polite society, not even if their socks were on fire. The weary and travel-worn historian bowed briefly to his king and then guestured over to his table, casting aside the pouch of gold, the crystal glass trinkets that a previous owner now deceased had left and cleared a spot for his sacred treasure. The king scarcely dared to breathe as the historian brought out not one, but several tomes, faded and worn, old by any account and worn, damaged and dirty almost beyond use. These he gently laid on a piece of midnight blue silk he had laid on the table. He opened one gently for the king to inspect, translating to him from the old toungue.
The king had been pleased, and immediately commissioned him to copy them as well as to outline and flesh out the history of their race. The historian was happy to comply, and all his time and energy went into his work. The first page of the historian's book lay on the kings table as he paced his room. More would shortly follow, he knew, and soon, the history would be properly bound. It remained uncertain that it would help lift his people's spirits, and buoy them and strengthen them for the challenges ahead, but short of emptying the homes of his people and focusing their entire nation on a war they might lose, but which could improve their morale should they win, the book seemed to be the best choice.
The king looked at the page again, picking it up and pacing his room as he read it. And he smiled.
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Smaksmo Udo, commonly known as the Universes of Soul.
The early wars and conquests of the Big Knife tribe of dwarves in Smaksmo Udo are reasonably well documented. But in all the histories of the dwarves the rise of the Fahlstrom clan of the Big Knife tribe stands, perhaps, as the most significant event in the years after the first millenium of recorded history and birth of the nations. The interesting fact of the matter is that the Fahlstrom clan can be traced easily to a single individual, one Atun Fahlstrom, apparently a resident of Kilrudmorul, whose location remains a mystery that has been lost to the ages. Atun serves as an even more interesting example of dwarfhood in that, unlike much of our perhaps more primitive ancestral heros he was, above all, an educated dwarf. Atun was a highly trained example of a siege engineer, one profession whose adherents are typically well-versed in mathematics, physics, and commonly the aerodynamics of flying objects. It is a testament to his skill, that according to legend, he single-handedly broke a goblin siege by crushing the goblin king under a boulder. Whether this happened as reputed is a matter of dispute among other historians but the author of this work feels that this remains more or less the truth. It was not, however, his prowess as an engineer that brought him his most fame, nor his reputed martial skill obtained in the military thereafter, though he was awarded the rank of Champion. It was his other attributes that inspired this founder of the strongest clan in history to break with tradition and to foster the orphans of the wars, that brought him the most notariety. The original four children he adopted (not sired) were all reputedly gifted and he took them in and taught them. The eldest of the four original Fahlstrom clan was Paulus, nine days his younger was Tony, a little more than a year younger was Scott, or Parenglaive and the youngest of the four was Tarin. This treatise will contain much of their original writings so that the reader may see for himself the struggles of the early clan. I, the author of this treatise, will interject other information as I see fit to fill in details that may have been omitted.
Be it known, we are dwarves once of the Big Knife tribe. We are few in word, for, in this world, words are easily stolen by the Vagushnum, the killing wind. But here, that which is carved in stone remains. And we are carved from the very bones of the mountains themselves.
Uril Sazirkatten
Historian of the Royal family of the Washed Constructs
Author
Topic: Geshud Osod, the Fortress of Bones (Community/Story in Legendary Lands) (Read 102127 times)