The Ered Luin - Dwarven Free RP

[Baphởmet]

The Blue Mountains, in the Years of the Trees and in the First Age, were home to a thriving Dwarven population, the great cities of Nogrod and Belegost dominated in both trade and craft. When Beleriand was ruined in the wake of the War of Wrath, the Ered Luin and the cities of the Dwarves were reshaped and brought low. Still, from the Second Age to the end of the Third Age, Dwarves, Men, and Elves made settlements in and around the peaks. Círdan established the port city of Mithlond at the mouth of the Gulf of Lhûn, where the Ered Luin was split in two. In exile from the Lonely Mountain, Thráin II established Thorin’s Gates.

Below are a mix of canon locations, MERP inspired locations, and a few locations dreamed up by yours truly. Feel free to use any of them or, in the spirit of NuPlaza, make up your own

Cities
Nogrod - one of the greatest cities of the Dwarves (the Broadbeams and the Firebeards) in the early years, very friendly with the Elves of Menegroth until that relationship turned sour, ruined in the destruction of the War of Wrath
Belegost - the other great city of the Dwarves in the early years, under the rule of Azaghâl until his death in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (note it is not well established if Belegost was completely destroyed at the end of the First Age)
Thorin’s Gates - Thráin II’s home in exile, partially abandoned after the return to Erebor
Bar-in-Gonagwelu (Frost Original) - the home of the Mablui Avari, refugees from Gondolin, under the rule of Ñarmotar

Mountains
Mount Rerir - once the home of Caranthir and the capital of Thargelion, now a shadow of its former self
Orod Elu (MERP) - the tallest mountain in the southern Ered Luin,
Amon Thanc (MERP) - once an outlying Dwarven stronghold, now infested with goblins

Regions
The Lhûn - the largest river in the Ered Luin, runs along the eastern side and empties into the Gulf of Lhûn
The Pinnath Luin (MERP) - outlying hills that connect to the Tower Hills in the north
The Ruins of Geiloth (Frost Original) - a ruined Dwarven mining town with hundreds of miles of unexplored tunnels
The Daer-Medlin-Eryn (Frost Original) - an ancient boreal rainforest filled with bears

Rules:
1. Read and enjoy other people’s hard work but respect their privacy (go to the RP Request Form if you would like to join an existing story or start a new story)
2. All races are welcome, timeline is whatever you want it to be for your story
3. Keep any OOC comments to the The Halls of Durin’s Folk
3. Refrain from using overly bright colors or potentially incur the wrath of the TRs (Frost and Tara)
4. The above list of locations is by no means a complete list, feel free to use other locations or simply make your own
5. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread
6. We are all adults here and can decide for ourselves the stories we want to read so rather than dictate what can and cannot be written in this thread, we will ask that any CW (at the discretion of the writer) be placed at the top of the post.

[Marceline]

Rock Salt and Sapphires
The Western Slopes of Mount Dolmed - F.A. 87
(Private)

The storm was long in the making. Dark clouds had formed in the west by mid-morning and spread, over the course of several hours, like a bruise across the sky in a swirl of blue and grey. Callontúr turned to gaze upon the clouds which, now piled high and darkening by the minute, obscured the afternoon sun. He furrowed his brow slightly, but whether this was out of agitation or concern or some other discomfort, none but those who knew him best might say. His features were, as a rule, a stoic mask - or at least they had been in the weeks since he had been chosen to serve as Rúauth’s personal guard. The young ellon had never been particularly loquacious, but duty had brought down a weight upon his words. On this journey, he had spoken infrequently and, even then, only at need.

His charge was several yards ahead of him, bent low and moving at an angle across scattered rocks and scree. Seeing this, Callontúr rushed to join her. It would not do for his first trip with her to end in injury or harm.

“You don’t need to hold my hand, you know,” the maiden said as he approached. “I can look after myself.”

Callontúr agreed inwardly that she was quite right: she bent low because it allowed her to move safely and quickly across the loose rock, not for any weakness or uncertainty. Strong-willed and intelligent, she was driven by an intense curiosity about the world and what she could make from it. In many ways, she was without need of him. He offered her a small, fleeting smile in reply, then allowed her to put just a bit more distance between them. Still, he watched with sharp blue eyes as she moved along, ready to jump to her aid at the slightest sign of trouble. All the while, he waited for the first roll of thunder from behind them.

Rúauth had seen what she hoped was the mouth of a cave above them, but she had said nothing about it to her champion. It was not that she mistrusted him, exactly; he had long trained to serve her father and his family, and now he bore the fabled sword of their clan, too. She did trust him - she had to, alone with him in the wilderness - but she was unconvinced that she required assistance on this trip or any other. And he was so strange: stoic and largely silent, trailing in her wake like an armed shadow. Alike as they looked (more than one stranger had mistaken them for siblings once they set out beyond the borders of their woodland home), Rúauth found Callontúr to be quite her opposite.

Born to the prince of a small clan of wood-elves, her life had been shaped by her desire to know all there was about everything beneath the sun, and she had learned and grown and explored with wonder. She was the only elleth among their kind who wore her hair cropped short; she had taken a sword to the length of it after it had become caught in the gnarled branches of a tree she had climbed as a child. To this day, she argued that short hair made her explorations, excavations, and tree-climbing simpler. For her, every day was full of new possibilities, and she hated anything that slowed her down in pursuit of more knowledge. Once she began dreaming of venturing forth from their little corner of the woods, though, her father had insisted that she go with a guard. He had his own reasons beyond paternal caution, of course, but he had not yet troubled her with them.

Once they had halved the distance toward the hole in the mountainside, Rúauth stopped and turned to look back at Callontúr. “There may be a cave ahead,” she began, slightly breathlessly. She pointed to her target. “Hopefully it is not full of bears. Shall we head that way?”

Her champion nodded and followed her up the slope. The higher they climbed, the heavier and damper the air became. Wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow, Callontúr thought, This is the opposite of what it should do at these heights. The storm behind them must be quite strong indeed.

The pair neared the dark spot in the mountain face just after the skies above opened up. Thunder crashed ever nearer, and lightning made the wet air crackle dangerously. As water ran through the little rocks littering the ground, the last several yards became more treacherous than any they had yet crossed. Callontúr, sure-footed and an unmatched climber, used both hands and feet to steady his balance. Rúauth, less experienced though as confident as could be, simply sprinted ahead. She slipped and fell to her knees just as Callontúr caught her up. He extended a hand to help her to her feet. She looked up at him and found that his gaze, searching and somber, asked if she was well.

“I’m fine,” she said in reply. Several minuscule pebbles had been pressed into her palms when she caught herself as she fell, and she brushed her hands against her leggings to rid herself of the stones and dirt. The minor scrapes left behind would heal quickly enough. She ignored Callontúr's outstretched hand and got to her feet unaided. “Let’s wait out the storm here.” Despite the rain and her fall, her eyes brightened. “Perhaps even do a little exploring, if there’s anything inside worth looking at.”

Without waiting for him to agree, she stepped into what turned out, to her delight, to be a cave: cool and dry and echoing with the incessant patter of rain on the mountain. Callontúr blinked the water from his eyes and followed her inside.

[Baphởmet]

Maker’s Mark

Thorin’s Gates

(Private)

Day One:
“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see, you’ll see,” came the reply with a soft chuckle.

“Don’t see why you needed to blindfold me. I could have easily just…”

“Be patient, my darling gem!” the voice was hard but with a soft edge of mirth, “we’re almost there.”

“You know I don’t like surprises, Thraslaug, I know I’ve told you…”

“And here we are!”

Thraslaug threw the blindfold off their companion who merely gawked at the sight in front of them. Their green-gold eyes sparkled to life, their lips turned from annoyed to beaming in half a heartbeat. It was Hringvald’s birthday, and it was not just any birthday. No, this was their one hundredth name day, their first centennial! Thraslaug had pulled out all the stops, gathered everyone they knew, every coworker, acquaintance, and patron, every second cousin, aunt, and nephew. Everyone was here. Hringvald’s parents even made the trip from Erebor to see them! They’d seen nearly a dozen centennials from their other children, but Hringvald was their favorite, their baby.

That anyone of the group had managed to keep this entire thing a secret was no small miracle. Thraslaug had had to threaten torture and exile a few of them, others they had had to bribe. But in the end the look of absolute shock on Hringvald’s face followed by sheer elation told them it was all worth it. “So what were you saying about surprises?”

The feast was wonderful, loud, boisterous, and full of flowing mead and roasted meat. Hringvald was a very popular dwarf, and the people of Thorin’s Gate loved them. After a few courses, and more than a few rounds of toasts, the entertainment began. Like some uppity elven princeling, Thraslaug directed all the guests outside for a firework display that would put that wizard to shame. Even more than getting all the guests here without arousing suspicious, purchasing fireworks had been a chore. Every passing peddler only had a handful of fireworks to sell. They bought them all each time and stockpiled them until it was finally time to show off all they’d done. The night sky was filled with explosions of fire and color in all shapes and sizes, blue fountains, green sparklers, confetti of a thousand different colors. The awed looks on the party goers faces buoyed their spirit, but it was Hringvald’s soft, crinkled eyes with a small tear in the corner and wide smile that meant the most. “Thank you, my love, thank you so, so much. This has been a most wonderful evening.”

Thraslaug placed a slender finger against their lover’s lip. “And it’s not over yet, my fiery heart. We have still have all the gifts!”

Hringvald’s eyes widened, they wiped the tear from their eye and chuckled. “How long did it take you to plan all this? And how did I not hear a single word?”

Thraslaug booped their nose. “A proper magician never reveals their secrets.”

“That will never stop me from trying!” Hringvald said with a laugh. They cupped Thraslaug’s cheek and looked at them tenderly for a moment. “Truly, this is amazing. I am a lucky dwarf.”

Rising in a luxurious and dramatic fashion, Thraslaug sashayed away with a wink. They went to the front of the lawn upon which the revelers had retired. “Attention,” they grabbed a clay mug before anyone could claim it and smashed it on the ground, the resultant crash was loud and wet, apparently there had still been half a swallow’s worth of mead in there. They shrugged. “Attention everyone! Thank you all so much for coming, I hope you enjoyed the fireworks?” A bout of thunderous applause followed, nearly as loud as the fireworks themselves, leave it to a bunch of half-drunk dwarves to compete over who could be the loudest. Thraslaug beamed. “And the feast?” the cheers were even louder, of that were possible. The entire gathering seemed determined to wake a dragon. There half a hundred shouts of “Happy birthday!” “Happy centennial!” “That’s our Hringvald!” “Never was a better dwarf!” “Did you see where I left my cane?” “Mead!” They waited for the cheers to die down; hands balled into fists at their waist and a sly grin on their face. “And now, the best part of any birthday party, the gifts! To the hall!”

For a third time, cheers erupted, chairs were overturned, and tables were knocked eschew. In less than a minute, all the dwarves had vacated the lawn and returned to the rented feast hall. It was going to be hell to clean up, but that was for morning when everyone was too hungover to protest.

In the hall, Hringvald was seated at the head of the table next to a massive pile of gifts, all wrapped with the most delicate skilled hands, Thraslaug’s own of course having insisted on wrapping all the presents for the sake uniformity. No one complained. The first gift was opened: an intricately carved clay pipe, the bowl shaped like a crab. It was paired with the second gift: a supple leather pouch filled to the brim with Old Toby. Naturally, such a universal alignment meant that Hringvald simply had to test out the pipe and the pipeweed. They blew the biggest smoke ring anyone had ever seen, and cheers went up.

The gift ceremony continued apace for nearly an hour, each gift ooh’ed and aah’ed, each giver applauded for their ingenuity and thanked for their thoughtfulness and generosity.

It was a wonderful night.

There was just one gift left to give.

After the last drunken dwarf was pointed to their home or any one of the hostels nearby, when the feast hall was spacious and empty once more, Thraslaug sat in Hringvald’s lap, kissing and nuzzling against their golden lampchops. “I hope you enjoyed tonight, my dear.”

“I loved it, every moment of it. A dwarf never had a better party nor a better partner.” They touched Thraslaug’s face, caressing the ruddy skin.

“Then I think you’re going to enjoy your final gift,” they took Hringvald’s hand and kissed each fingertip.

“Final gift?”

“You didn’t expect me to claim this party was my gift to you, did you?” Thraslaug’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief. They slip of their partner’s lap, grabbed their hand and pulled them into a standing position. They were both drunk, the mead had flowed freely with the beer and wine and hippocras. “Follow me…” they winked and began to run off, Hringvald followed, feigning chase.

They made it a block away, each giggling and stumbling as they made it to the building. “We’re here!” Thraslaug announced, regaining a hint of sobriety. “Follow me.” They grabbed their partner’s hand and pulled them to the doorway. Once inside, after a few more stolen kisses, they lit the torch sitting in the sconce. “Ta-da!”

Inside, in the center of the room, was a massive block of stone, white stained with veins of red, green, and gold. It stood raised on a thick table with a leather roll of pristine tools aligned with matching oak handles. The stone block was tall, standing at least six feet in the air, a full foot taller than both dwarves and was just as wide and long.

“Thraslaug…” was the only sound, aside from a sharp intake of breath, for a good minute. Hringvald walked tentatively to the great stone block, almost timidly. They reached out and touched the marble slab and recoiled as if they’d been stung. They sniffed and wiped away a tear. “This, this is beautiful. I, I don’t know what to say.”

Thraslaug joined them, interlocking their fingers as they both admired the stone. “Would you like to make a child with me?”

“I would love to,” Hringvald said in a hushed, reverent tone. They took a hammer from the assembled tools and tested the weight while looking at the stone, their mind already full of ideas and hopes and dreams. “We will have a lot of work ahead of us, won’t we?”

[Baphởmet]

Winter Thrice
Linmoth, on the northern slopes of Ruscras
(Private)

The skies were beginning to darken as the sun finally set on the day. The din of battle had not died down though, there were still pockets of goblin resistance here and there, and the fighting was fierce. There were stories about how some battles soaked the ground in blood and made the rivers run red. If there were any truth to stories like those, this had been one of those battles. Everything was red, the grass had been trampled, replaced with a bodies upon bodies; trees had been ripped out of the earth or simply broken at their base. This had been the worst goblin incursion in living memory. They had nearly made it to the gates of the city. Inside the walled town of Linmoth a dozen fires were still being put out. Projectiles had been hurled over the gate with alarm efficiency. But now the battle was all but won. The forces of the city had held, but only just. If another battalion of goblins came over the hills, there would be no stopping them. Thank the blue stars they didn’t know that. They’d been put to flight, their line broken, and their commander slain, a nasty goblin nearly the size of an uruk. Illuya had slain him herself, decapitating him with a single stroke of her massive war hammer. The fight had been fierce, worthy of a song, if any songs could be sung about today. If the elven barbarian had not been able to kill him, there was no doubt in any of the defenders’ minds that they would not have survived. The goblins not only had the numbers, but they fought with a ferocity none of them expected. Cowardly by nature, goblins never attacked en masse like this unless driven by desperation or greed. So, which was it? No one wanted to speculate.

Alphiel’s scars were red and angry. Her leather and chainmail armor was soaked in black and red blood; her blade, too, was covered tip to hilt in goblin innards. She had not been able to reach Illuya in time. She thought for sure her wife would be swarmed as she went for the hobgoblin leader. She should have known better. Illuya had fought in more wars than she had years. She’d battled and killed just about ever sort of Shadow spawn that existed: goblin to dragon. Alphiel allowed herself a moment to breathe. Despite the cost, they’d won. They’d won. Mourning losses would come later. She charged forward, running as fast as she could into a fray. Three defenders against six goblins. The defenders had been pinned against the lee of a wide boulder, Alphiel climbed the opposite side and leapt down, her sword splitting one of the goblins from skullcap to asshole. The blade stuck in the ground so she left it there and kicked the next goblin viciously in the back. She heard something crack as it landed hard on the ground. She saw it twitch but it didn’t get up. She afforded herself a moment to smile, a twisted sneer of triumph. Even weaponless, she was a force to be reckoned with. The goblins sensed this and began to flee. Two of them darted out of range, another was turned into a pin cushion by an archer a dozen paces off. The last one she grabbed from behind by the neck and flung him against the boulder. He wheezed and coughed; the breath knocked out of him. When he slumped to the ground, she kicked him in the guts. He spewed something red and viscous. “Take this one to the stockade. My mother will want to question him.” The three defenders nodded and ruthlessly carried out her order. The goblin was hogtied with coarse rope and hauled away.

Now, where is Illuya? She’d taken her eyes off her while she attacked and now, between the haze of smoke and the lowlight of dusk, she couldn’t find her. Panic, as unhelpful as a two headed snake, began to creep into her stomach. “Did you miss me?” that familiar, crisp lilt washed the panic away before it could fully grip her. She turned and hugged, her eyes not registering yet what her ears already knew. She hugged Illuya fiercely. “Easy now!” the elf winced as her wife wrapped her in a bear hug. “I swear you’re gonna do more damage that the feckin’ hobgoblin.”

Alphiel laughed and broke off her embrace. “You scared me is all.”

The elleth laughed, high and clear as a bronze bell. “You need to worry less about me, love, and more about yourself. Tilion’s silver bullocks! Look at yourself!” Illuya’s face looked aghast. Alphiel was suddenly aware of how injured she actually was. Not all the blood soaking her garments and armor was that of the enemy. Somewhere in all the carnage and confusion an arrow had managed to pierce her hip. She hadn’t felt it until now. Suddenly the pain roared and she stumbled. The elven barbarian, though, was light on her feet and caught her. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not gonna pass out on me now. Let’s get you to the herbalist.”

“Tell him…” Alphiel said between winces, “tell him not to wear that creepy mask. I know he likes it but black stars, it’s ridiculous.” Illuya kissed her wife’s cheek, not realizing it was smeared with goblin blood. She gagged and spat. The Edain woman chuckled. “That’s the reaction every woman wants when someone kisses them. You have some goblin on your lips, my love.”

They made it through the gates when Alphiel finally collapsed. She screamed. A dozen defenders, all battered and bruised themselves, converged and helped carry her to the makeshift triage tent that had been set up on the village green where she was stripped of her armor. The fires had been put out, but the smoke was taking a long time to clear. Through all the din and chaos, Alphiel could hear her mother giving orders. She grabbed her wife’s arm and refused to let go. “Don’t tell her, please. I’m begging you.”

“She’s not gonna hear it from me, hervess nín. But she will hear it from someone. Don’t delay the inevitable. You know it’s only going to make it worse.” Her face was wreathed with concern and ash, her wild red hair coming loose from its ponytail. She pried Alphiel’s fingers from her arm and kissed them. “Talk to you mother, my love.”

Alphiel sighed and winced. The herbalist was already by her side, sans mask. “I’m sorry my lady, this is going to hurt.” He gave her a piece of wood to bite down on and, almost without warning, made an incision above the wound with an obsidian knife. She roared and bit down. That had not been so bad. Sure, it was painful but… Then she screamed and nearly bit the piece of wood in two as he pulled the arrow free along the incision. “I’m gonna kill you, you blind bastard! I’m going to rip your lungs out and slap you with them until you…”

“All done, my lady,” the herbalist applied a poultice to the wound and wrapped it, all while ignoring Aphiel threatening to murder him in a hundred different ways.

She let out a slow, weak breath. “Another scar?”

“I’m afraid so, my lady.”

She chuckled. “What’s one more? My wife loves them.”

“Aaah,” he mumbled uncomfortably, “if you don’t mind my lady, my services are required elsewhere.” Before she could react, he was gone, a shadow in the night.

“Illuya?” she asked, her vision blurry from the pain.

“I’m still here, though if you threaten me like that, you won’t be.”

She laughed, it hurt. “We have to send and envoy to him. I know you think we can handle ourselves. But… but, it’s time. We can’t do this again. There… there were too many, too many dead. We need the king’s help.”

“Aye,” her wife agreed. “Your mother is going to send us.”

[Marceline]

Rock Salt and Sapphires
Mount Dolmed - F.A. 87
(Private)

“Light a torch, won’t you?”

Rúauth’s voice bounced around the cave, a light chorus of “Won’t you? Won’t you? Won’t you?” fading until nothing remained but the steady drip, drip, drip of water at the cave’s mouth. Callontúr nodded and removed from his pack a knife, flint, and a small torch. He struck metal to flint and the sparks cascaded across the stone beneath their feet. A few fell upon the tip of the torch and bloomed where they landed; a pale yellow glow spread around him as the flames grew. The young ellon held the torch aloft and observed Rúauth’s eyes glinting with anticipation. This was the sort of place she had dreamed of finding when they set out from their woodland home, and she was determined to explore its uttermost reaches. She would note everything they found and make a full report to her father, Prince Rhoam. Then maybe he would see the worth in her explorations and expeditions and ease up on his demand that she devote herself to prayer. She turned and walked toward a dark, gaping void ahead. Callontúr followed without a word.

The cave smelled like a cave in a rainstorm, but there was nothing foul in the air. This heartened her. Rúauth extended her right hand to the tunnel wall as she walked. The tunnel was narrow but not cramped; if she extended her left arm, she could almost touch the opposite wall. As the scent of the place told her little, she decided she would feel what she could not see in the limited torchlight. The stone was smooth, cold, and slightly damp, though it became drier as they went. The floor of the tunnel sloped downward: with each step, they plunged further into the mountain. She paused at a rough patch in the wall and motioned Callontúr closer. The torchlight flickered across his pensive features; his blue eyes shone brightly for a moment before she turned to examine the spot on the wall. White streaked the stone. She ran a hand over the white patch again, then licked a finger. She tasted salt.

“I wonder if the dwarves know of this place,” she murmured. “They would stand to make a fortune mining the flavor of the earth. We ought to tell them!” Her green eyes lit up once more, but Callontúr’s brow creased. The secrets gleaned from the elves’ explorations were not, in his experience, things Prince Rhoam gave freely to outsiders. He was not sure that the princess, caught up in her excitement, had considered the nuances of the trade of information between the races. Rúauth, still learning his expressions and seeing nothing but skepticism written on his face, scowled in return.

“You think it should remain a secret? What do our people care if the dwarves line their pockets when we can find everything we need in the trees and fields and mountains?” She put her hands upon her hips and considered her guard. “In any case, I thought it was your job to follow me about and guard me, not to question the policy of the kingdom.” She placed a careful, mocking emphasis on the word “guard” - just enough to make it clear that she remained wary of him and his presence, not to mention his uses. “In any case,” she continued, unslinging her own pack, “I mean to alert my father to the fact that this is here. He can decide what to do with the information.” From within her bag, she retrieved a small book of blank parchment and a charcoal pencil, and began to sketch the location of the cave. She wrote one word beside her drawing: Salt.

Callontúr was surprised, but pleasantly so. Perhaps this maid was less impulsive and impetuous than he’d been led to believe, growing up on the fringes of her father’s court. She snapped the book shut and glanced at him. Noting his expression of impressed relief, she laughed. “Did you expect I was going to run off to the dwarves right now, in this weather? You underestimate me. I’ll have you know that I’m devoted to uncovering all there is to find inside this cave.”

The pair continued down the tunnel.

Soon enough, the air cooled considerably around them, and the ground leveled off. The wall upon which Rúauth had continued to run her hand simply stopped, and she was left with her hand reaching out into empty air. “A side tunnel!” she whispered. She motioned for Callontúr to step forward with the torch. He complied with a nod, and they stepped forward. Their footsteps sounded less close as they moved into this new territory. Soon, the merry torchlight showed them a vast, round space with white-veined walls and a pool in its center.

“Ah!” Callontúr gasped in surprise. He had never seen anything like an underground lake before. He’d spent life thus far among the trees and upon the mountains - not within them. He was a strong swimmer, but all his experience of water had been in lakes and rivers out in the open world. He wondered how this water would feel. It would almost certainly be cool, but would it be fresh, sitting for so long in this hidden place? He found that he dearly wanted to find out. To his delight, his charge strode forward to the edge of the water and crouched low to inspect it. He had to credit her with fearlessness, if nothing else. He followed suit, bringing the torch to illuminate the pool.

The two bent over the water and saw themselves reflected in its glassy-smooth surface, golden hair and green and blue eyes standing out against the dark depths. Rúauth wondered when this water had last been disturbed, or if there was anything living in it. She let her hand wander the ground and picked up the first small stone she found. Callontúr, eyes wide, nodded when she extended her arm over the water and opened her hand to reveal the stone on her palm, indicating what she planned.

She dropped it into the pool with a small plunk!, and the two elves stood and stepped back to watch tiny ripples spread across the water for the first time in an age.

[Ercassie]

Igneous Hammerstorm (aka Iggy)
at home with his wife and daughter, 3014 TA

The residential quarter of the city was a labyrinth of streets, a vast and complex warren of lightless rivers that spread like a many rooted motif paved by flawless onyx. Hard-set effigies of Mahal stood proud sentinels at corners, with arms pointing out direction down yet more identical aisles. Were it not that all such gullies wore streams of gold daubed runes along the extent of their arms, it would prove easy to lose one’s way. And given that the runes were representative of ancient Dwarvish, the design ascertained that all and any outsiders who might stumble into the locale, might never find their way back out.

Iggy could have walked his way home blindfold, though the incandescent lamps which hung high on the arched roosts blurred through salt rock at all hours of the day and night. There was no way to tell which the world outside might claim an hour, and few cared at that when they were underground. For time within the Dwarvish citadel was dedicated to the crafts they there mastered and marvelled at. Mealtimes were ruled by hunger, so that while some supped, others took up work in their stead, and the artistry of the Dwarves never slept.

Only for a cause of mass celebration and feast would all tools be laid down at once, and such had been the case of late, when the Lady Nariel had come on errand of Lord Earenolwe, mind set upon cementing the alliance of Elves and Dwarves in Lindon as a whole. Fractures had been splitting atween the neighbouring races for some months, thanks to the forestry debate. And frankly the smith was amazed that they had managed to pull off a party, with even Mallosel of Doriath in attendance, and no fatalities to speak of.

Well, no fatalities within their halls at least. He and his young apprentice had assured that the corsairs who came knocking would not bother them again. At least, Iggy hoped not. He did not care for outsiders and tolerated only those who contributed some worth. As far as he could figure, these Men who threatened the coastline were set upon a war with the Elves, and the Dwarf was not best keen to prove a tool they might employ to gain their own ambition. He cared for his people before any else. A smile he carried light of heart beyond his heavy beard as he approached his home, his hearth, his kin.



“Where have you been to, hmm ?”

Ola. The Dwarf’s wife was named so to the world at large, though she possessed a true name spoken only by her folk. Still he had been Iggy all evening, and so she had been Ola. Her cheeks yet brazen both pink and plump from the dancing she’d undertaken. Or perhaps the temper she now pretended to stoke at his being from her side.

“Business needed doing,” he muttered, handing his beloved the still blood-stained battle axe. Never minding any further questions, Ola laid it down at a small chiselled altar and dragged the heavy fur-coat off her spouse. Never minding the bloodied specks that had come of slaughtering the strange man’s dogbeast.

“Doing took just long enough to miss all of the cleaning up of that great feast,” she noted, without prying further into what he had been up to. It was one of the qualities which had drawn Hammerstorm to his long-time mate. Her disinclination toward prying. Nagging though was a feature it seemed of all Dwarf women.

“Some sorts of cleaning up can’t help but make more mess,” he shrugged, and gathered his utensils to pay fair homage to the family heirloom. The axe had belonged to the infamous Iggy Bloodbeard, hero of their clan, and it would not do at all to discard it without the proper tending. Cleaning. Sharpening. The way things were going, who knew how soon Iggy might need to showcase it’s might again.

“Our daughter has gone to clean up that apprentice of yours,” Ola informed him, a reminder of their child’s growing admiration for Bronte Gildbrow. Iggy did not answer but furthered his attention upon the legendary weapon.


Olgi was the greatest treasure that he had ever possessed the privilege to claim his own. For few were the Dwarves who found a spouse that suited them, and fewer still were those who cared to then bring forth a child. The smith had no cause to dislike his apprentice, indeed he was rather fond of him, save for the prospect of handing over his only daughter into the other Dwarf’s possession. It was a hard thing to be a parent, and a harder thing again to be a Dwarven parent, for loath were any of their kindred to surrender what they coveted the most. Even unto another they held almost as dear.

'Blessed' with a brother who was .. rogue to say the least .. making a nuisance of himself somewhere in Rivendell, of all places !, Iggy Hammerstorm had no choice but to one day entrust his trade and his only child both unto young Gildbrow. For he would personally not live forever and his line, his name, must proceed without him in time. Mahal help the lad though if he did not rouse a child out of Hammerstorm's grown child. For there had been an Iggy for as many generations back as he could count. And Dwarves were not overly fond of change.

[Baphởmet]

Maker’s Mark
Thorin’s Gates
(Private)

Day Two:
They had been working for six straight hours after the party. The workroom was covered in scattered parchment paper with as many variations of dwarven anatomy as there could possibly be. The pair had come up with half a hundred different ideas for their child and discarded half a hundred and one. Thraslaug looked at the massive block and blinked slowly. It was starting to get hard to think now, after the initial giddiness had worn off. Their hands cramped from holding pencils, from erasing and drafting and erasing. Both Thraslaug and Hringvald had spent time on the drafting table while the other marched and paced around the room trying to jumpstart the creative process. That one singular brilliant and perfect design just eluded them though, peaking out from behind the stone here and there just long enough to tease them and convince themselves to stay up just a few more minutes. The sun had gone down and would be reappearing at any moment.

“My love,” they said through a very exaggerated yawn. “I think it might be time to call it a day.”

Hringvald stirred, they’d fallen asleep at the drafting table, propped up on their elbows with eyes half closed. “Hmmm? Yeah, I think that’s a good… hmmm?” they blinked owlishly yawned with even more exaggeration than Thraslaug. “We’re so close. I can feel it. The design is almost there.”

Thraslaug chuckled softly and crossed the room to take their partner’s hand. “We are both exhausted. I’m quite certain you’ve been asleep for the last twenty minutes.”

“That would explain why the stone isn’t green anymore, and why my elbows hurt.”

“Oh darling,” Thraslaug kissed Hringvald’s cheek and helped them off the chair. “I’m quite certain that a good night’s sleep with help our creative process. There’s no need to rush it. Our child is going to be perfect, even if it takes a month to design them.”

Hringvald looked up at them and traced the line of their jaw. “Mmmmmm, how long did it take for your parents to carve you?”

“Between the four of them it took them a week just to get the design; another month and a half of actual carving after that.”

Hringvald giggled. “Well the design they came up with is my favorite design ever.”

Thraslaug blushed. “Well your parents did quite a number with you, if I may be so bold.”

Dwarven procreation, such as it was, was highly personal and highly secretive. Instead of giving birth like humans or elves, dwarves carved their offspring. In the same way that Mahal had carved out the original seven dwarves (two male, two female, and three enby), parents carved their children. Dwarven family units, too, were highly unique and different from many of the other races within Middle-earth. It was just as common to have a family unit consist of a mother and child as it was to have two fathers, another parent and three children. Individual expression was paramount. The dwarves were a people that prided themselves on their craftsmanship as well as their diversity. Since their inception, dwarves had sought out new ways and new avenues of self-exploration and self-expression it only seemed natural for them to explore those avenues socially as well as creatively. Their societies had been blessed with great amounts of love and tolerance as a result. They reached the conclusion that nonbinary was a valid feeling much earlier than the elves or humans (though those were both coming around to it these days). They still used terms like “king” and “queen” despite the utter lack of needed gender qualifications for the roles, mostly so as not to confuse their poor, taller allies too much (Maedhros was one of the few elven leaders to ever learn and accept that the greatest leader of the First Age, Azaghâl, was in fact a woman despite the title of king). As it turned out, dwarves had more than metallurgy, stonework, and construction secrets to share with humans and elves.

The knowledge of sculpture and carving was innate in all dwarves, no matter what. The first seven dwarves were carved of holy material, stone, wood, glass, and precious metals that only existed in the Blessed Realm. In Middle earth, the entire world was their oyster, so to speak. Thraslaug themselves had been carved from a block of limestone with a small vein of bronze running through it. The bronze had been extracted and hammered out over their final form to give their skin the coppery glow they had now. Their parents, two fathers, a mother, and a parent, had taken longer in life to create a child and Thraslaug had been their only one, the culmination of all their parent’s hopes and dreams and love. They were doted on their whole life. Hringvald’s mother and father had crafted many children, each of a different material, Hringvald had been sculpted out of crushed abalone shell. Their eldest sister had been made from blown glass and their second eldest sibling had been carved from a fallen Mallorn tree gifted to them by the Lady of the Golden Woods. Despite the diversity of materials, an outsider should never think of them as status symbols. Dwarves have no need of such things among their own kind. A Queen and their consorts may just as easily desire a child carved from oak as cast from pure gold. The material, rather, reflected the creativity and ideas of the parent rather than their wealth status.

“Maybe if we made two…” Hringvald mused before they locked the door to the workroom.

“Twins? They’d be awfully young once they were carved,” countered Thraslaug. The idea had occurred to them as well, they had enough marble to possibly make two small children, but that might cause another issue.

They were more than capable of raising twins, they were successful and had the time and space to care them (obviously the idea of an unwanted child was completely and utterly alien to the dwarves) but any leftover material from the carving a child went to creating toys and gifts for the child. Thraslaug still had the building blocks they’d been gifted, the same building blocks that inspired them to pursue a career in architecture. Hringvald had been gifted with a wondrously delicate tea set they still used for guests and special occasions. Then there was the final carving to consider. Each child was created nonbinary. After a period of time, ranging anywhere from a few months to a few decades, they would decide who and what they wanted to be and were given materials to thusly craft their image of themselves: male, female, neither, or any combination of the three. Not all dwarves decided to go through with a final carving, of course, they liked to bounce back and forth in a sort of fluidity that even flabbergasted the elves. Dwarves were, it must be said, the most creative of all the races of Middle-earth, Thraslaug would hear no arguments to the contrary.

“You’re right, I supposed,” mumbled Hringvald. “Then what do you think about the Vitruvian Dwarf?”

Thraslaug smiled. “I always did like a classic. Maybe one with a little more height? We can still carve a nice babyface on there to make sure they aren’t too old.”

“And white hair, just like you.”

They blushed. “And wonderful sideburns, just like you.”

“I think that’s perfect,” Hringvald said through another yawn. “But can it wait until tomorrow to start drafting? I want to dream of wildberry princesses and green ladies.”

“As long as I can join you,” laughed Thraslaug.

They were home soon, and neither of them had to wait long before they were fast asleep, cuddled in each other’s arms.



NPF edit: some gold to help create your future child

[Baphởmet]

Winter Thrice
On the Road to Bar-in-Gonagwelu
(Private)

Alphiel traced the scar on her wife’s thigh from its central point down to her calf. She had so many of these scars, Lichtenberg figures as they were called. She’d heard the tale of the first lightning strike, during one of the great battles of the First Age, a bolt came down from heaven and nearly killed Illuya. She’d not died from it, obviously, but that moment had changed her. The way her wife told the story, the lightning strike was an awakening of sorts, the dawn of a new era for her. She would wax lyrical about the battles she took part in and how the lightning fueled the wild abandon with which she fought. These scars, according to the healers, were supposed to disappear after a few days; not so with Illuya. Her body was riddled with purple, red, white, and black rivulets. She said they didn’t hurt anymore, that every lightning strike since that first one had gotten less painful to the point where she almost didn’t feel them, but her wife didn’t trust the bravado.

She kissed Illuya’s thigh, bringing an end to her wife’s daydreaming. “How do you have any more energy?” she asked with a short laugh, “I swear, I’m the wild one, but you have the stamina of a racehorse.” It was true. They were still covered in a sheen of sweat from the heat outside and the activity within their tent. Despite her wound, Alphiel found herself restless and in need of physical comfort. Illuya was only too happy to oblige. It was in her strong arms and marbled shoulders that Alphiel found relief and delight in equal measure. She pressed her body into her wife’s and let the heat seep into her. Fingers and hands explored and found purchase, lips met skin and tender embrace. Alphiel closed her eyes and rested her head on Illuya’s shoulder. “I love you,” she mumbled sleepily.

They’d been on the road for several days now. It was a long way from Linmoth to Bar-in-Gonagwelu, especially through the rugged hills and rough pathways of the Ered Luin. Despite the many cities, townships, and villages that dotted the area, there was no complete system of roads. Each society, be they Edain, Mablui, Sindar, or Dwarf, had its own system that did not jive with anyone else’s. Travel was often fraught. It was not uncommon for a traveler to get lost trying to traverse the perilous peaks. The goblins and orcs had taken advantage of this inefficiency for years beyond count. The monsters didn’t need roads or pathways; they seemed to possess some sort of internal compass that allowed them to travel over the wild country in secret and in large groups. Alphiel remembered her mother trying to band together with the over villages and towns and design a better infrastructure, but the meetings devolved into politics and who was subservient to who and which town would have to pay more than others and who would get more benefits. They had all avoided doing what Alphiel and Illuya were doing now: going to the Mablui. There was a certain amount of mistrust of the elven kingdom, even more so than the other elven realms in Middle-earth. The Mablui were secretive and isolationist; the king, Ñarmotar Mórohtelë, had by all accounts, retreated so far into the hollow places of his underground kingdom that he was likely to find a passageway to the other side of the world before long. They were so few, the elves of Bar-in-Gonagwelu, having suffered tragedy after tragedy throughout the long history of their realm. Yet despite their isolation and their secrets, they were powerful and influential. Alphiel’s mother feared them, believing that a partnership with the elves would mean subsumption of her township. The people of Linmoth deserved a better fate than being the playthings of elves. She believed the same, but also that her people didn’t deserve to be fodder for ravaging goblin hordes.

They still had days to go yet. The road they were on would diverge in a day; they had a decision to make. One path led up through the cliffs of the Dawn Gorge, a precariously steep passage where a nameless river had cut a swath before vanishing under the earth; it was a shorter trip, but the number of sky burials that lay scattered along the high places gave anyone pause. The other pathway took them through a nameless and silent valley. People disappeared in that valley more often than not. Something lived in that valley, but no one who went looking ever found it. There were hundreds of stories about shadows and tentacles and a swamp at the center, but each tale was more fantastical and unbelievable than the last. Alphiel didn’t want to think about the choice of evils that lay before them.

“We’re going to have to decide soon,” Illuya said as if reading her wife’s thoughts. She laid a blanket across her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “the gorge, or the valley.”

“I wish we didn’t have to choose either,” the Edain admitted.

“Believe me, I know the feeling,” Illuya took her hand and interlaced their fingers. “But I know we’ll be alright. Between the two of us, neither place stands a chance.”

“Am I doing the right thing?” Alphiel stared out the tent’s open flap into the black night sky.

“We’re doing the only thing we can do.”

They didn’t speak for some time, preferring the silence and the physical touch to words and conversation. The night wore on and eventually they each fell asleep, nestled within each other’s arms. Dawn came, with her fingertips of rose, and the world came to life once more. Illuya was up first; she hardly ever seemed to sleep. When Alphiel awoke and came out to listen to the morning chorus of finches, thrushes, and warblers, her elven wife was returning with two rabbits tied and skinned.

“Well, well, well!” she called, her vibrant blood-red hair tied in a hasty, messy ponytail. “You look like you’ve had a good rest.”

Alphiel nodded, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She yawned prodigiously. “You already got breakfast?”

“Found these two going at it like, well like rabbits and decided we could use some of that energy,” she winked and they both laughed.

They ate roasted coney with root vegetables and spring water then began to pack up their small camp. The horses feasted on barley, sorghum, and apples.

“Ready?” Alphiel climbed atop her horse. Illuya sprang like a deer and landed like a feather on her unbridled, unsaddled horse.

“Ready.”

The day wore on. They watched silently as the path twisted and turned, going around some hills then straight over others (signs that the road had not been constructed by the same group of people from point to point). Ever so slowly, they could feel themselves climbing. The air grew thinner and colder while the clouds seemed closer like they were almost within reach. Animals became more and more scarce the more they climbed. The songs of birds were left behind, the chittering of cicadas and grasshoppers too fell away. As night fell again, they were met with an eerie silence.

“So, what have you decided?” Illuya finally said after another evening spent wrapped in each’s embrace. She was flush and out of breath, but her eyes sparkled brighter than stars.

“I think so,” Alphiel said, looking up from cradled position against Illuya’s stomach. “I think we take the gorge.”

“The gorge it is,” her wife responded and pulled her up for another deep, inviting kiss.

[Marceline]

Rock Salt and Sapphires
Mount Dolmed - F.A. 87
(Private)

“Astounding,” Rúauth said of the ripples’ perfect symmetry. How could nature create such perfect forms? Intricate and lovely as the patterns in woodelven craftsmanship might be, she saw now that the artists were at their best when they took their inspiration directly from the simple perfection of the natural world. This peaceful series of concentric circles on the water drew her in and set in her a sense of calm which she did not expect, the miniature waves’ little crests flashing golden in the torchlight against a deep blue backdrop. The elven princess’s green eyes followed the first line of ripples to the pool’s edge, and she smiled.

“When was the last time someone saw this pool?” she wondered aloud. “Or are we the first?” She lowered herself to sit cross-legged upon the cool stone ground and removed her sketchbook and pencil from her pack once more. “If we are, I must have a record of it to share with the others!”

Callontúr crouched beside her, holding the torch dutifully aloft so she could work in its light. Rúauth tucked her short golden locks behind her ears and set about her task with an air of studiousness, brow furrowed as she tried to trace an outline of the pool which showed its true form. She shaded the corners of her sketch to illustrate the dark depths of the cave, and then she drew Callontúr facing the pool, torch in hand. She sketched his hair falling over his eyes and the sword at his side. She paused after drawing the sword. Why did it choose him? she wondered. He was one of many who’d trained to serve her family, and she had yet to see what made him so special as to be granted that weapon of heroes. With a single downward stroke of her pencil, she drew the serious line of his brow and laughed lightly to herself.

In sitting, Callontúr had come closer to the water’s edge, and while Rúauth sketched, he leaned forward to watch the ripples as they diminished and slowed to stillness once more. Before the pool smoothed over, he saw dark shapes flitting about within it: it seemed the stone had disturbed more than just the water’s mirror-like surface. What could be living here, so deep below the mountain? he wondered. He edged closer to the water to peer into its shadowy depths. Small silver-mailed fish dashed about, and he saw a few pale, slender somethings moving sinuously through the water with tiny legs kicking furiously, too. Where had they all come from? No river ran through this place that he could see.

Rúauth noticed him leaning over the water, closed her sketchbook upon the pencil, and scooted forward to join him. “Fish!” she exclaimed. Her voice rang lightly around the little cavern and stirred up the creatures in the water once more. As their tails or fins skimmed the surface, a series of smaller ripples ran across the pool again. “There must be an underground stream that feeds into this pool, and another that leads out. No wonder it doesn’t smell horrible here!”

Callontúr was surprised by the certainty with which she drew this conclusion. There were many things he knew, but the workings of subterranean rivers and lakes were not among them. And who knew? She might be wrong. It was no use questioning her, though - not if he hoped to gain her trust, however begrudging that might be. He would simply accept that, somehow, fish and those pale, liazardlike creatures had come to live here in a tranquil, underground pond. In a way, he regretted the intrusion upon the peace of their lonely and lightless existence.

With this in mind, he stood and backed away from the water. As he moved, he hummed a merry tune his father had sung countless times throughout Callontúr’s youth. He was sure his father was still singing the song to this day. The torchlight cast their shadows long and lean upon the walls, and the sound of Callontúr’s voice strengthened the illumination until its fluttering rays caught something shining off along the far wall.

“Oh,” he murmured, his eyes drawn to the glittering shape. He moved around the pool toward it. It seemed that sparks of pale blue-green light bounced off it as he and the torch came closer. Finally, he stopped and reached out a hand to touch it. The surface was strangely smooth and glassy; if he pressed his forehead to the cool stone, he could almost see something glowing softly within.

“Oh,” echoed Rúauth, without irony. She was as surprised by this strange, glassy boulder as he was. “It glows! But how?” She ran a hand across its surface and found herself surprised by the contrast with the cavern’s walls. “I wonder how this came to be,” she mused, stepping back and opening her sketchbook again. “Stand next to this stone, won’t you?” she commanded. With a nod, Callontúr complied. She drew the large stone with her guardian next to it for scale - it was nearly as tall as he - then snapped her book shut. “I wish we could find out what’s inside!”

Callontúr considered the boulder. Its glassiness suggested a certain brittleness, and he looked down at his sword. Could such a blade crack it? Would he still be worthy of the sword if he tried such a thing? It was made for a guardian of a goddess, not for mining unknown ores. But what if there was some secret gem or element concealed within the strange stone, or even a message left behind by the primordial beings who’d shaped the earth? Slowly, he made up his mind. He set down the torch, and the flames fluttered on against the dry stone ground. He unsheathed his sword and, with two hands upon the hilt, stepped forward.

“Stand back.”

Rúauth was startled to hear him speak but took several steps away even in her surprise. Callontúr swung the sword up and back and brought it down like an axe on the great boulder’s midpoint. Sparks flew from where the two made contact, and several small chips of stone fell to the floor. This was a promising sign. He struck it again, and again, and again, until at last a great chunk of the brittle stone fell away, and the remaining structure crumbled into a heap of dark, shiny rubble at their feet. Callontúr sheathed his sword - he would look to see how badly notched it was later - and took several deep breaths. Rúauth hurried forward and knelt to search through the boulder’s shattered remains. A pale greenish-blue light grew as she moved aside the material which had encased the glowing objects. Eventually she stood, holding two large, luminous stones.

She brought them to Callontúr and placed one in his hands. They stood there in silence for what seemed like an age, contemplating the strange rocks with their eerie light. After a time, Rúauth held hers up at shoulder height. Callontúr did the same. The two saw each other’s faces illuminated with that pale, steady light, but their features were warmed in the glow of the torchlight flickering from the floor.