A Diatribe on Disillusion; a Praise for Dwarfkind

[Kardel 1054]

Spoiler

https://youtu.be/DD65K4VR6Lw

 

Dwarves speaking their politics at a tavern, an aged one standing amidst them to mediate a conflict between two younger ones

 

In a few places, although not in so many that such a meditation could be widely distributed so that all would know, wise mouthes behind long beards mumble the echoes of voices long gone– those utterances belonging to dwarves long passed into the aether but not yet at peace. Slowly and heavily do they speak, with only that authority which befits those lumbering, agéd dwarves nearing the end of their lives in a time of peace. In times past, such a thing would have been shameful. A dwarf who doth die on a deathbead of his own discomfort would have certainly, in those times of Kjell and Thorin, in those times of Omithiel and Algoda, been considered unworthy of his braids. But now was a different time. Dungrimm judged these old ones not, for peace had been ordained by the Divines overwhelming of his will. And this was good. For, indeed, for the kinslaying that had raged so rampant in times of the recent past was most horrible indeed. Anbella was certainly granting the sons of Urguan respite after that long and testful time.

 

And what can an old dwarf do during such a time? To fall onto his own sword, aye; some had done so. Many of the utterances hereforth heard did indeed come from such a dwarf, who, upon seeing the dismal state of his kin, had chosen to slay himself rather than face shame. Where he is now is nowhere honorable. Self-sacrifice the domain of Dungrimm is; but suicide doth belong to Khorvad. Yet even from that nether do some whispers remain, albeit unattested, for what good is a dwarf if he has lost his honor and his life? His lips cannot provide excuses. His memory can only soothe the dishonor a little, but even this is remembered by a few. And so the old dwarves sit and discuss, debating half-wittedly, Ogradhad having long abandoned them, on the glories of days passed; musing on this and that, and once in a while unintentionally betraying a word of wisdom.

 

Aye...for what is an old dwarf to do when his beard is too long yet his tenure on this plane too brief to lift the axe? They await their death, hoping that the Brathmordakin will take mercy upon their unindustrious souls with good understanding of their circumstances in time. And so they talk, clutching feeble fingers around tankards of fine ale– for at least this was a time of prosperity for the industrious young, many of which in these Under-Realms would gladly throw a mina or two to the barkeep to keep the lumbering dotards with a belly-full of mead as they await Dungrimm's call.

 

"Eht's guud ale"

"Wot?"

"É saed weir all goin'ta hael"

"Nai a diddun"

"Wot?"

"O shot it will ye ye deaf...ye deaf..."

 

A young Grandaxe passed by and took pity on the stone-skinned elders, too old to be of use any longer, the hair of their beards now greyed and falling; each has their time, and these dwarves were past it.

 

---

 

Occasionally, the ancient ones would have a moment of salience. Brief, aye, but a moment nevertheless. For Ogradhad's servant, the Dragon, did seldom, in his flights to ensure the Balance of Yemekarr, land upon their temples and breath some fire into their ears to rekindle that original flame of knowing. These were often the days when the ale flowed handsomely from the contributions of younger dwarves, and when the beards of these ancients were well-greased with the oil of capon– so that they could ignore their bodily sufferings for a while and converse undistracted. And once in a while, but rarely as always, a youngblood would sit himself near to these stone-skinned ancients and raise an eyebrow, for he would wonder in his mind (perhaps directed by Ogradhad as a mercy to the senile):

 

"And what, mayhaps, have these old ones seen that I have not? Did they see the pillars of KalÚrguan, which were Golems, but of gargantuan size? And do they remember the sparkle in the eyes of the Silverbeards long dead (if, perchance, this name was remembered to him). And were they warriors as we are and did they fight as we do? Or did they slay kin, and gamble, and deject themselves in avarice, as more of us do? What do these ancient ones have to tell us."

 

And, of course, in classic dwarvish fashion, this would manifest itself in plain speech...for, as all should know, a dwarf thinks ten words per one word uttered: many forget that the sons of Urguan are the most intelligent of the races:

 

"Tell me a storeh," would utter the youngblood– within this simple phrase en-captured the entirety of his thought illustrated above– and by Ogradhad's mercy the ancients would receive this and their eyes would light up and their chapped, greased lips curl into a smile, and with a faint breath and shaky diaphragm they would begin to tell the tales of times long since traversed by dwarves long dead:

---

A DIATRIBE ON DISILLUSION

Feasting Dwarves in Khaz'A'Dentrumm; those who were selected at the auction of the Brathmordakin enjoy the company of their kin in eternal feast amidst the Silver Halls of Dungrimm

 

 

"Might it be that we wonder constantly how all relates to us and how we relate to all?" says an ancient, less eloquently and more pointedly, of course. "Aye, for some of us were not always dotards awaiting death. But our faces so liver-marked have become and our eyes so faint have grown, and our once proud voices now whispers and our ambitions long since extinguished, that we are no longer recognized for who we were. How many countless ancients, stone-skinned and nearing death, did once brag titles of great honour in the Legion of Urguan's past? Some can even claim to have been statesmen; others, merchants of repute–although those that were do still enjoy the fruits of their labours! Aye, that is, if they did not gamble their riches away...as most of them, of course, did! HAH! Such is the life of the dwedmar."

 

The young one smiles at the nonsense dribble of the stone-skinned ancient. He gives him some more ale for his belly and buys a cord of wood for the fire; the mines are closed for the night and sleep escapes the youthful laborer– he judges he might be entertained, if not at least lulled to sleep, by the diatribe of the old one.

 

"There are some of us old, forgotten ones that once even bragged the title of King. Aye...but better not be recognized. Those that have been forgotten, whose images do not accommodate a crown well at this old age, most likely never had the temples befitting of a crown. Some of them did not even wear their crowns. Others, victims of the cruelty of time. Others still kinslayers. Yet many more than can be counted men of politics..."

 

"Politics is a useless thing for wise persons. Those who are wise stay away from it unless demanded by the Brathmordakin. Ogradhad despises trifles and despises even more charlatans. There is no truth in such politics; truth is only in action– surely Yemekarr would agree if he woke. Yet when he does wake he shall judge creation harshly...for many stray from the truth and attach to it fanciful details which, plainly put, are lies. Aye– and this is dangerous. For from this comes the DISILLUSION"

 

The young dwarf nods to sleep as the stone-skinned ancients nod and bicker, rubbing their well-fed bellies and scratching their beards which, by this point, are of the length of many meters with great fanciful braids testifying to their age and clan affiliation. One who sits wears a beard braided in great forks and triads; ale and sword. The other's is even longer yet runs wild and is as black as teak; wrath once burned in his heart. The other's resembles fire and is clasped so as to be controllable but comfortable; he once cleaved many an orc with his axe for the sake of honor. Three ancients with three lessons.

 

"Think of how much damage has done this politicking to our kin."

"Aye"

"Aye, Aye, Aye"

 

"Even the wisest of us are tempted by it. All think they bear the best idea for the children of Urguan. Yet Urguan himself knew the folly of this long before our time. Aye, the people select the direction as befitting them and as appropriate by the times. Those who seek to divide are cursed. Those who seeks to unite under an iron first fall hard but are less cursed. Those who dare kinslay are the most wicked of all...and is a kinslayer even any more a dwarf?" queries the one with a last ember of ire in his heart.

 

"Of course." says one other,  "A spawn of Urguan of Urguan will always be. And to kinslay him who has kinslayed to kinslay is. The kinslayer must be punished, but not by the hand of kin; by the mouth of beast, perhaps, or by the hand of an yrrok. This is more just with the gods," quips the dying one with the braided beard of silver and blue ornaments.

 

"Nay, you speak nonesense you drunk. So unusual and cruel and methodic...befitting of your clan! Always a formula; a kinslayer kin is no more, for by slaying kin his kin he has forsaken; and thus, no longer being kin, to slay the kinslayer is to slay; and this is, in and of itself, just by the Brathmordakin," says the spawn of Bogrin, judiciously as always.

 

"Mayhaps you are right. But see," says the aged Ireheart "Look how you manifest disillusion. Surely, you are too wise now for this; Dungrimm doth call. You both agree that a kinslayer to be slain has in his destiny, and how it is done matters not. What is important is not to become DISILLUSIONED over such trifles; they may lead to disunity."

 

The dwarves grumble: Ireheart wit must be given its due credit. A warrior clan bears with it many lessons. These were those that delved into the nether and slew the Khorvadspawn which was Iblées...the Ireheart demand respect. The young dwarf sleeps; a good decision he made sitting by the old ones.

 

"Yet dictatorship too is unacceptable" adds the other stone-skin, "for we may all converge on one point, but to lose that which makes us unique is to polish away at the gem until all of its materiel is sanded into dust. Let yourselves not be DISILLUSIONED, but surely let yourself be DIVERGENT and diverse by that virtue. To converge means not to suppress. To suppress is to disenrich and betray. This is surely a due course for kinslaying, the gravest sin. Rather, accept all in good measure as father URGUAN did in creating our system for the dwarven people, but deny those which are dangerous and DISILLUSIONED."

 

And so the ancient dwarves bickered about semantic, pragmatic, and custom as they slowly drifted into sleep.

 

---

A PRAISE FOR DWARF-KIND

 

Spoiler

https://youtu.be/z2kc570KwUs

 

 

Of the Brathmordakin all dwarves know but of the Anmordakin only those arcane priests and sages remember. To worship an Anmordakin that is not Brathmordakin is surely sin; and the Brathmordakin hate it. For the celestials are Anmordakin but the Primordials are Brathmordakin; and whilst the Brathmordakin are in the larger sense of the world Anmordakin, they are infinitely more divine and second only to YEMEKARR himself who, having done his labor, sleeps until the day when the reckoning shall come and the cycle will finally break. Yet during this slumber, the lesser Anmordakin do serve the Brathmordakin faithfully; for the Brathmordakin have no interest in manifesting directly in our infinitesimally insignificant plane; their duties are to keep the order of the cosmos in BALANCE. And so they send the lesser ones down to look after the descendants and, of course, after their particular favorites, the dwarves of URGUAN who are blessed by pure blood, good heart, and clear mind. Aye, for that vile Khorvadic hex of Greed must at least be kept in check.

 

A folk Dwarven symbol for Ulno, the Warbringer Wolf, part of the larger semantic inventory used to depict Dungrimm

 

 

ULNO the WOLF OF DUNGRIMM stalks the mountains of Agnarum, and his howl is the whistling of the wind, and his growl is the rumble of thunder, and his eyes the stars. ULNO did look upon Kal'Varoth fondly, albeit with hunger. For ULNO was the warbringer, the deathbringer, bearer of plagues; but his white fur remained unseen, accept to those who sacrificed to him discretely, those priests who dared not divulge his presence to anyone else, for ULNO had long followed the dwarven people and brought reckoning to them when DUNGRIMM MOST HIGH demanded it.

 

ULNO scoffed and hissed at himself. What were such morsels in comparison to that havoc of decades recent passed? ULNO loved kinslayers, for in the end it was he who would devour them in eternity in his seven rows of teeth. But his mouth was shut by the divine spell of DUNGRIMM MOST HIGH who forbade him to wreak havoc at this time, for the Under-Realm of Urguan had proven itself to him as valiant and honorable, and these dwarves of this age were forged from hard-beaten mettle of conflicts of great horror; and, much like the steel blade which undergoes much trauma to strengthen, so were these young dwarves– tempered with the blood of those they once even called their kin. These were good dwarves. Hopefully their children would not be so good, for ULNO was growing hungry for the dishonorable...

 

Anbella begging Dungrimm for mercy for the Dwarven people after the great Kinslaying

 

ULNO heard the rustle and dissipated into the yonder quickly, for other Anmordakin were nearby; AENNA, sprite of ANBELLA MOST HIGH, and THE DRAGON, servant of OGRADHAD MOST HIGH, stalked Agnarum unseen; they were the breezes and sweet spring airs. They were the flowers that bloomed and the leaves that carpeted the ground in golden glory. They were the good harvest and the good king, and the good kirkja and the good custom...for this time of the Under Realms was the time of good, of the Algiz rune turned fork-side up; and very auspicious their presence was. Together, AENNA and THE DRAGON did smile upon the dwarves. And they uttered joyfully:

 

AUROK'GALAT OZ URGUAN'RUMM HH

ENN-NARH'THREIN'TOK RULKAHD DAG KORMAR NA ANNAK HL

NA ENN'MER'TOK KORTHON KEZNOLMAR YOTH-KARGOL UR-KORTHIAN MER DWAK'RUMM H

 

Praise be to the sons of Urguan!

May from them be born a crown of stars and valor;

And may their ancestors forever of them be proud.

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Algoda 885]

One of the grizzled dwarves stays mostly silent during the debate. As the ancient ones slowly cease their bickering for the day, a tear slowly trickles down along the decrepit and scarred face. 

 

“Da Kez’ram Ok’Khazadmar ‘o haritz. Da Kez’ram Ok’Yrromar zal’karnes”

 

“Though i do hope these young ones proves me wrong.”

[Hiebe 2493]

Dwain is seen reading the old tomes of Irongutia and older tomes of Urguan.

 

Whut a toime it wuld 'ave been tu see Kal Urguan an seen King Simpa war the Ironborns. Wonder whut fadder wuld say bout it.

[Cpt_Noobman 1954]

((Good write, I enjoyed reading it

[ryno2 1285]

Officer Grudgebeard tracks down the pamphlet’s author for a discussion and an exchange of stories over tea. 

[Fimlin 1997]

The Under-King Fimlin Grandaxe broods over these words, contemplating deeply their meaning before speaking for anyone nearby to hear;

 

“Nae ah word ‘ere ah will disagree wit’. In me own yout’ ah longed fer the days the older dwedmar told of to return, and tried to return moi clan to t’ose days. When ah grew older, ah yearned fer the days of me yout’, an’ tried to return to t’em. Now, all ah can ever do is think to t’ose days an’ weep fer ah know vereh well t’ey s’all never return. Nae ah’ve learned teh lesson of disillusion as ‘ard as aneh dwed can tha’ the past can never b’come teh present, nor future. All we can ever do is ‘old it close to our ‘earts, lift up ourselves, an’ live ‘nother day wotever it brings.”

 

“The Under-Realm did nae start in suc’ ah great place, ah ‘ad a vision fer dwedkoind tha’ ah knew onleh ah could bring forward. Ah never took fer granted tha’ t’is would ever come to pass, nor did ah know t’at it ever would. T’ere ‘ave been many, many toimes w’ere ah ‘ad nae clue down wot pat’ to lead the dwedmar, but remember’n why ah c’ose to take up t’is axe in the first place is wot ‘as kept moi back straight in years w’ere ah near teh status of ancient mehself. Moi beard ‘as more grey t’en ah ever thought it’d ‘ave, but t’ere is still plenteh of foire left in it. But ah sleep easy at noight, know’n that t’ere be many a dwed w’o will take up the axe after ah cannae.”

 

“Ah dunnae know w’ere the path leads next, but ‘till ah foind out, t’ere is much more work to be done in Urguan.”

 

With that Fimlin returns to his brooding state and remains silent.

[osumanduas 1442]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.