Tweet
Deep in the Storm Horn mountains of Cormyr the furnaces were hot and smoky. Working fires could be seen everywhere as hundreds of dwarves beat, molded, pressed, smelt, and hammered metal into many different crafts. Barazinbar stood to one side of a pile of crude weapons dressed in his leather apron hammering the slag off of yet another battle axe. Bar felt he could hammer the slag from weapons in his sleep and indeed his mind often wandered back to his Rite of Leaving the Hearth celebration just two years ago. He was now apprenticing as a weaponscrafter to his great-uncle. It could be worse, he thought, weaponscrafting was a very respectable occupation and his great-uncle Draegen was considered one of the best in clan Ironclad. He would much rather have been a deepwarden but his father forbid it. Bar was roused from his daydreaming as the figure of another stout young dwarf came into the firelight of his great-uncles forge. Braezeel, the clanmasters young son, strode staight to Bar with a huge grin on his face. Braezeel and Bar had been in the same rune school and had quickly grown to like each other. Some of their exploits were legend now in the the younger circles of Brom'Khalad...or at least the young dwarves thought.
"What'r ye about" Bar said as Braezeel got near. "Be quick'n quiet er Draegen'll ave yer arse".
"Ah think at's why ah like ye Bar, always in a good mood" Glancing back at Draegen Braezeel continued. "Listen ere. Purple Dragons came in yesterday. They be avin troubles with the swiners in the Stone Lands. Me da's gonna send out a war party on the morrow. Ee said I could go. So get yerself ready and meet us at the arch gate at sunrise."
Draegen had spotted the two young dwarves talking. "Bah! Get ye gone Braezeel or ye'll be tastin me ammer!"
WIth a smack on Bar's shoulder Braezeel scooted off back to the upper levels. Bar could barely contain himself. He had only been outside his ancestral caverns Brom'Khalad one time in all his 26 years and that had been all too quick. To go out all the way to the Stonelands and with a war party! But he knew neither his father or his great-uncle would allow it. He would make it happen. They would see. He would make them proud. The next morning Bar crept into the family central chamber. He already had his fathers plate armor sitting outside. As quietly as he could he moved towards the hearth and looked up at the beautiful warmace resting on the mantle. The family warmace was crafted centuries before by his ancestors. It appeared to be made of one solid gleaming piece of metal. Bar could see the crossed battle axe symbol on the side facing him. He looked back once then reached up and reverently grabbed the warmace. To his surprise it was lighter than he thought. He turned it over in the dim light and looked at the engraving work on the other side; a faceted gem set against a mountainous silhouette.
One hundred dwarves had marched steady for two weeks. Bar stayed close to Braezeel. The marching was tiring but the outside world had Bar exhilirated. All this space was incedible, the sounds, the light, everything was beyond expectation. Finally they had made it to the Stonelands. Bar was not impressed. For as far as he could see it was a barren wasteland. Nothing but poor mounded soil and rocks everywhere he looked. There were hills and valleys covering the land. You could hide an army in here, he thought. The very next day they found that army. The dwarves quickly formed up in their defensive squares as they were beset by a horde of orcs and stone giants. They were quickly surrounded. The dwarves beat back ten times their number that day but eventually the hurled rocks and orcish spears cut them down. Singing a war song to Moradin the last few dwarves, including Bar and Braezeel, were in a maelstrom of swinging weapons, screaming orcs, blood, and huge flying rocks. Bar was just about to swing at the nearest orc when suddenly he found himself underneath a 1600 pound giant. He was completely pinned underneath the dead behemoth. He could barely hear the muffled fighting outside and try as he may he could not budge the heavy creature off him. He was trying to squirm to the side yet again as he heard the noises quiet a bit then his families warmace was stripped from his hand. Bar went into a mad frenzy but he just could not move. He could barely breathe. Little by little, over a matter of a few days Bar managed to squirm his way out. He finally stood looking at the battlefield. Every dwarf had been killed. Over a thousand orcs lay dead along with twenty giants. His families ancestral warmace, gone. Bar found Braezeel's corpse not far from where he lay, three spears and a huge gaping cut across his chest had ended the life of the clanmasters youngest son. Bar drew his dagger and stood looking down at his best friend as he cut his short beard from his face. He would not grow it again until he had regained his honor.
"What'r ye about" Bar said as Braezeel got near. "Be quick'n quiet er Draegen'll ave yer arse".
"Ah think at's why ah like ye Bar, always in a good mood" Glancing back at Draegen Braezeel continued. "Listen ere. Purple Dragons came in yesterday. They be avin troubles with the swiners in the Stone Lands. Me da's gonna send out a war party on the morrow. Ee said I could go. So get yerself ready and meet us at the arch gate at sunrise."
Draegen had spotted the two young dwarves talking. "Bah! Get ye gone Braezeel or ye'll be tastin me ammer!"
WIth a smack on Bar's shoulder Braezeel scooted off back to the upper levels. Bar could barely contain himself. He had only been outside his ancestral caverns Brom'Khalad one time in all his 26 years and that had been all too quick. To go out all the way to the Stonelands and with a war party! But he knew neither his father or his great-uncle would allow it. He would make it happen. They would see. He would make them proud. The next morning Bar crept into the family central chamber. He already had his fathers plate armor sitting outside. As quietly as he could he moved towards the hearth and looked up at the beautiful warmace resting on the mantle. The family warmace was crafted centuries before by his ancestors. It appeared to be made of one solid gleaming piece of metal. Bar could see the crossed battle axe symbol on the side facing him. He looked back once then reached up and reverently grabbed the warmace. To his surprise it was lighter than he thought. He turned it over in the dim light and looked at the engraving work on the other side; a faceted gem set against a mountainous silhouette.
One hundred dwarves had marched steady for two weeks. Bar stayed close to Braezeel. The marching was tiring but the outside world had Bar exhilirated. All this space was incedible, the sounds, the light, everything was beyond expectation. Finally they had made it to the Stonelands. Bar was not impressed. For as far as he could see it was a barren wasteland. Nothing but poor mounded soil and rocks everywhere he looked. There were hills and valleys covering the land. You could hide an army in here, he thought. The very next day they found that army. The dwarves quickly formed up in their defensive squares as they were beset by a horde of orcs and stone giants. They were quickly surrounded. The dwarves beat back ten times their number that day but eventually the hurled rocks and orcish spears cut them down. Singing a war song to Moradin the last few dwarves, including Bar and Braezeel, were in a maelstrom of swinging weapons, screaming orcs, blood, and huge flying rocks. Bar was just about to swing at the nearest orc when suddenly he found himself underneath a 1600 pound giant. He was completely pinned underneath the dead behemoth. He could barely hear the muffled fighting outside and try as he may he could not budge the heavy creature off him. He was trying to squirm to the side yet again as he heard the noises quiet a bit then his families warmace was stripped from his hand. Bar went into a mad frenzy but he just could not move. He could barely breathe. Little by little, over a matter of a few days Bar managed to squirm his way out. He finally stood looking at the battlefield. Every dwarf had been killed. Over a thousand orcs lay dead along with twenty giants. His families ancestral warmace, gone. Bar found Braezeel's corpse not far from where he lay, three spears and a huge gaping cut across his chest had ended the life of the clanmasters youngest son. Bar drew his dagger and stood looking down at his best friend as he cut his short beard from his face. He would not grow it again until he had regained his honor.