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A dwarven enchanter on a journey of discovery and lore - both for his profession and his family.
Background[edit]
Part 1[edit]
Khrumm, son of Khrimm, son of Khrzaum, of the house of Kÿhr within the Clan of Velkr, could trace his bloodline into the depths of the clan’s history, almost to the founding of Vazhürunïhr (“The Halls of Iron”), their home in the heart of the Iron Mountains. As far as anyone knew, his family had worked steel (üdovazhür) for as long as it had existed, or at least as long as the extensive mines below had yielded iron (vazhür) and coal (ohrug).
The Velkhr had a long and storied history, stretching back nearly one thousand years. But his clan was small – too small to have a grand üdhrm, such as Clan Fhÿldrm to the north, or Clan Belor to the south had. He had wondered from time to time why, but the elders of his clan had no answers. They said it had been so since the Seven Fathers emerged from the great fire in ancient times, and that the destiny of their Velkr clan was to trade with their brothers to the north and south, uphold the laws and traditions of their people, and be content in that.
He tried to be content as he was told. But at night, he would think about it as he drifted off to sleep. Why should Clan Velkhr not be as bold and powerful as their cousins to the north and the south? Why had they been proscribed to forever exist in the shadows of the more powerful clans? It was confusing, and did not align with any of the teachings of the priests of Ghrnhrÿm, or in the legends and myths of the dwarven people that they spoke of on holy days and rituals.
But over time, he worked to find peace with a future of inheriting his father’s forge and carrying on the honorable tradition of his forebears.
Until something happened that had not happened – at least not during his lifetime.
There was an elf at the gate. She looked the worse for wear, pale and gaunt. Her sword, marvelous in its construction, long and graceful, lay in two pieces, one in each hand. She had heard tales of the weaponsmiths of Vazhürunïhr, and here she was, having endured the four-day climb to the entrance on foot. Even more miraculously, she had survived the hostile inhabitants of the hills and mountains between the elven lands to the west, and more concerningly, even the best traps and wards the Vazhürunïhr had built to protect their dwelling.
She was imprisoned and interrogated for days. But, after multiple divinations by the priests and the wisest of the Stone-Mages, they concluded that strange though it might be, she spoke the truth, and meant the clan no harm.
Her name was Eliriel, hailing from the Elf-Kingdom of Iriath’ion, which claimed most of the great forest that covered as far as the eye could see below the slopes of the mountains west of Vazhürunïhr.
All she asked was a hot meal, a pallet, and for her sword to be reforged. If they would provide her with provisions and supplies for her journey after she left them, she had the coin for it. If the smiths were interested in elven enchantments in trade she offered to teach them. And so it was that this curiously thin creature found herself at the family forge, where his father grumbled and grunted about elves while looking the sword over. “It’s good work,” he begrudgingly admitted. “I can reforge it.” The elf thanked him and went looking for that hot meal, and he and Khrumm went to work on the blade.
Khrimm had no interest in the offer of enchantment. Dwarves had their own, and they were better, of course.
Instead, the elf would find herself laden with errands, which she did without complaint. Until the day she was called back to the forge. “I’m not used to working with this elf-steel,” Khrimm grumbled, “but it’s as good as new. No, better!” The elf took the blade, turned away from the dwarves, and made a few experimental slashes in the air. “Superb,” she concluded.
Their business concluded, Eliriel started to make her preparations to leave. Khrumm desperately wanted to learn more of this Elven spellcraft in the service of weaponsmithing, but it was his duty to respect his father’s wishes and say no more about it.
Then one day, he was studying in one of the observing chambers of the hall – a large room high in the dwelling, with a large opening filled with completely transparent crystals that gave those inside a panoramic view of the lands to both the east and the west of the peak. He heard a knock and then the door opened, and Eliriel stood before him, weapon in hand.
“I see you are passionate about the craft of arcane weaponry, Master Khrumm,” she said in the language of his people. Her diction and grammar were perfect, but the words had a strange Elven lilt to them that any dwarf would find distracting.
She raised her blade. “Would you care to see an example of what my people study on this topic?”
He nodded, unable to make his tongue speak the word for yes.
She performed it right there – spells and rituals that ended in a song that somehow became infused into the metal of the blade itself. When she was done, a swing of the blade caused the singing to rise again, and he felt the poweful effect of it – his spirit rose and he felt as if he could take on an army!
Khrumm was fascinated. Different ways of enchanting! Things not written in any of the dusty tomes of his people.
She smiled, sheathing the weapon. He felt the energy begin to dissipate shortly after. Moments later, it was gone.
“You have a curiosity about the world that I see not in your clan, Master Dwarf. Perhaps one day you will venture out into it, and find learning beyond what your elders can pass on to you.
She knelt down to bring her eyes to his level, meeting his gaze with a serious look.
“But take care – you may also learn things that will dispel your restful sleep, and cause you to question all that you know. Your clan’s history is long – longer than even your elders know. Some secrets are buried deeper than even the most precious ore and gems, and hide terrors worse than any that might lurk in the bowels of these mountains.”
She stood, regarding him. “But perhaps you will be able to learn the truth and not be caged by it. Perhaps you will be the one to restore your Clan to what it once was. In this, I wish you luck. I will leave upon the morrow, to make my way east and north, to the lands of my cousins in the snowy peaks that they men call the Grey Mountains. Should you one day leave here to find your destiny, perhaps we will meet again there one day.”
She bowed and left him to try to sort out everything he had just seen and heard.
Her statement about knowledge destroying one’s rest was prophetic. He could not find sleep that evening at all as things turned over and over in his brain.
True to her word, Eliriel left the next day, departing not west toward her people, but east. The elders warned her of the huge and evil swamp that she would find there – called the Dire Fens by men. To the north and south of that were the lands of Men, where her kind were held suspect, or in some cases persecuted.
She thanked them and said that what she sought was in that direction, and that she would face what might lie there as she had the dangers that had sought to keep her from Vazhürunïhr.
Khrumm watched as she marched away along the narrow path along the cliffs and crags, bright eyed and singing.
He knew in that moment that one day, he would set out to learn all that the wider world might know of steel and forging. And try to discover what she had spoken of regarding the history of his people.
Finally, when he was old enough, he packed his bags. He swore to his teary-eyed father that he’d return as the best smith the Vazhürunïhr had ever seen, and struck out into a world he’d only ever seen from within the safety of the mountain.
His father, to his surprise, bade him come to the forge.
His father opened up a case and showed Khrumm what was inside.
Their gift to him, to help him succeed and one day come back safe to them.
It did not take long to learn that life outside of his clan did not quite live up to the fantasy he had imagined in his mind.
His first hard lesson was learned when he followed the path of Eliriel east, into the land of men known as Ivepia.
Search though he might, he found that even the best human smiths were barely passable by dwarven standards. Worse, humans seemed to know little of magic as his people practiced it – they cowed and praised what favors of their gods their prayers could garner, but views on arcane magic ranged from wary suspicion to outright hostility, depending on the locale. He learned to listen first before striking up conversations on the topic, lest he find himself persecuted.
The fact that most humans he met had had little contact with his people did not help.
He finally decided that he would need to journey elsewhere to realize his dream of discovering hidden secrets of the forge.
To the north was Fhÿldrmüdhrm, renowned for their prowess in combat and their skill in forging weapons. They were not as skilled with üdovazhür as the Velkhr, but it was said they mined and forged strange and exotic metals – nerôru (true-silver, mithril), the strange metal aghün, which men called titanium, that could be alloyed into weapons that were superior to even the best dwarven steel; and even dôhrüm, the strange glass-like substance that became harder and stronger in the heat of the forge, and could only be shaped and worked in the ice and snow of the coldest mountain peaks. These were things that Khrumm had only read about in ancient texts, and his mind whirled at the possibilities.
To the south, he could travel to Belorudhurm; fabled for their skill as silversmiths, they also had the distinction of being the only clan that owned and operated naval vessels that sailed on the open ocean.
The choice was obvious.
Part II[edit]
He decided to take the terrifying but necessary road that skirted between the foothills of the mountains and the inky dark of the Dire Fens – the Mirecrawl, men called it.
He hired on as a guard and smith with a caravan heading north with goods from the lands of men further south – Endeja, they called it. A young merchant, too poor to ship his goods by boat, but hoping to make enough with his caravan of expensive wines that he would never have to travel the road again – if they made it.
There were more than twenty armed men guarding the caravan – tough warriors who had seen combat, and even a few who had explored ruins and caverns and had tales to tell of the monsters and terrors they had fought.
And not just men. Like his own people, female humans apparently fought beside the men. The caravan had three women fighters; any of whom could hold her own in a fight with the strongest of the men in the group.
The journey nearly ended in disaster.
Not three days after leaving the last town in Ivepia, a band of ogres attacked them. Khrumm had read about them, but seeing them was a different story altogether. Nevertheless, he acquitted himself well in the ensuing battle.
But they lost three men before it was over.
Four days later, five more men were lost to the siren song of what sounded like the voices of beautiful women, but which turned out to be horrible, half-bird half woman monstrosities. Khrumm himself was injured in combat, and would carry a scar on his left shoulder for the rest of his life most likely.
They were nearing Seld Saufaré, a fortification at the northern end of the road that was the first outpost of the Kingdom of Athervon, when the worst happened.
From over the precipice that defined the border of the swamp – “The Fall”, the men called it – came shambling, undead corpses. One after another, bearing rusted, notched weapons and dented, ruined armor.
The battle raged as they tried to hold them back while the caravan raced ahead.
For the better part of an evening, they fought. Two of the women fell, and five more of the men.
Dawn was what saved them. As the first rays began to light up the sky, the things squealed and snarled, but then turned and fled, leaping over the edge of the sheer cliff to disappear into the darkness of the fetid swamp below.
They limped into Seld Saufaré. Of the original twenty-four guards, only nine remained, including himself.
But the shipment arrived, and the merchant paid well as he said he would. The funds were enough that Khrumm was able to purchase slightly better equipment and gear.
He began to journey north, heading towards Fhÿldrmüdhrm. He had passed through the town of Asala, which apparently had only recently had a group of fortune-seekers like himself fight and slay some kind of terror that had plagued the place for generations. There was some talk of them having discovered something of Dwarven origin during their fight with the thing – something that had come from a mine his northern cousins had abandoned, somewhere between the town and Fhÿldrmüdhrm.
With coin and a patient ear, he learned more about this mine as he travelled north.
The mines had held rich seams of gemstones, particularly urïru, ürÿz', azhâ, and ukür – what men call sapphires, iolite, tanzanite, and lapis luzi. The mine was named Uhrômunïhr - the “Blue Halls” – in honor of these veins of blue gems that glittered throughout the place.
Supposedly both ôru and aghün – silver and titanium – were also found and mined and forged into armor and weapons there.
Aghün. One of the fabled metals he had read about.
He could barely contain his excitement.
Finally, in one of the villages one night, a drunken man told him that he had found the entrance to the mines long ago, when he was a lad.
The rest of the folk in the room laughed – the man was not to be trusted, making up stories constantly.
Khrumm felt the tingle of excitement as he clutched the small vellum map he had traced out based on the man’s directions, his purse a gold crown lighter than it had been at the beginning of the evening.
He put his head on his pillow, looking out at the cold night sky, knowing he would be unable to sleep.
Eliriel had warned him that knowledge might take his rest from him. But he was happier than he had been since leaving his home.
Part III[edit]
The journey to the mines had been uneventful – after a brief stop in the last village – Benales – to stock up on supplies, he had journeyed west towards the Iron Mountains – the same range that his people dwelled within, but now considerably further north.
He found the ruins of an old lift system – a huge winch and pulley system that once would have had a match somewhere above where the mine was located, used to bring ore, finished goods, supplies, or anything else up and down to the mine. Since the paths to the settlements were typically narrow and steep for practical and defensive reasons, the trolley system was useful when conditions allowed for its use. Of course, it was a complete wreck now – some pieces were gone altogether, and what was left was rusted, rotting, or broken. It looked like something huge had crashed into it at some point, bending the stout metal of the frame.
After scouting around for about an hour, he found the remains of the trail that would lead to the mine; the markings were old and faded, and no non-dwarf would ever have noticed them. But there they were, all but weathered away by the passing of years.
He followed the steep path upwards, which twisted through numerous switchbacks and more than one false peak, until he finally found himself on the patio of the entrance to the mines. The two figures of dwarven soldiers on each side of the stone double doors clearly indicated he had found his goal. He saw the wrecked and decayed remains of this side of the trolley run, along with the twisted pieces of rail track that would have brought goods in and out of the mine during its heyday.
The stone doors were closed.
That presented a problem.
He tried every incantation, every secret phrase, every bit of knowledge he possessed about his people to attempt to find the words that would open the doors.
But nothing worked.
Frustrated, he moved over to the ruins of the trolley as night began to fall, wondering what he might do. Clouds had moved in, and a light, freezing cold rain began to fall, darkening his mood further.
He was about to get up and return down the path to find someplace to make a camp when he heard the unmistakable sound of rock grinding on rock.
He froze.
The doors were opening!
He almost yelled for joy. But then, as the sound of grinding rock abated, he heard a loud bellowing grunt.
He plastered himself against the wet rock of the side of the mountain face, hiding behind the remnants of the ruined winch system and holding his breath.
As he watched, a shape exited from the doors – it was huge – far taller than a human – and massive.
A troll.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps this had not been a good idea.
He quietly exhaled and took a shallow breath. As he watched, the thing moved out, looking down over the edge of the patio towards the narrow road below. Then it looked about briefly.
He froze, hoping it couldn’t see or smell him.
His prayers were answered. With another loud growl, it turned and clumsily moved off down the trail, descending toward the road below.
He waited. Minutes went by.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Glancing down, he finally saw the huge shape arrive onto the road below.
He let out a slow breath.
He looked at the open door.
He had to make a decision. Enter now and hope to find what he sought; descend to try to get to safety, hoping he didn’t run into the thing doing so; or stay here, freezing in the rain, until the thing returned, hoping it didn’t see him at that point.
At least in a dwarven mine, he would be in environs he knew and understood. He probably stood a better chance of evading the thing there than out here in the wilds. Who knows, perhaps with the right tactics and strategy, he could even best it?
He carefully slid out from his hiding spot and edged towards the doors. Reaching them, he turned and slid inside.
He was now standing on a long, narrow stone bridge on which the tracks ran; on both sides was what appeared to be a bottomless chasm – a fairly standard entrance defense, requiring attackers to enter single file. Looking carefully at the walls, he saw the places where the slits for dwarven crossbowmen would be hidden in the engraved designs of the warriors on the walls.
At the end of the tracks was a set of huge double doors, open.
He moved towards them quickly. The sooner he could get to a defensive position, the better. If he could find the control room for the entrance defenses, he might even be able to arm them to take care of the troll when it returned, solving his problem.
He slipped through the doors.
And walked into the leg of a second troll.
He remembers looking up, seeing the huge thing turn to look back at him. He started to stumble backward before he remembered the narrow tracks and chasm behind him. He was changing his mind and preparing to cast a spell to at least distract the thing when it swung a huge arm down at him, the back of its hand sending him flying across whatever room he was in.
He hit a stone wall with a sickening crunching sound. He slid to the floor as stars fluttered all around his field of vision. It hurt to breathe.
The last thing he remembers is the thing approaching – the lips curling back into the ugliest of smiles, the mouth of sharp teeth and massive tusks.
Then his world went black, and he knew nothing more.