Diamond encrusted platinum ledger

[lonnarin]

From the desk of Bjornigar Ironguts
-----------------------------------

Lotta tings changin since mah move ere.  Seems loike fer-ever since ah been oot ter da Fort in Bloody Gate.  Fiddy eight years ah served der, best drill seargant in da regiment.  Used tah whip em wee gangly buggers intah pure iron, ah did.  Me favorite drill were da "wakin trout," HAR!  dat when we make ye rounds all quiet loike round em lazy buggers sleepin on dey shift.. den ye gits ah bucket an ah fesh caught trout, an ye throws it on em!  Dey wakes up all wet n riled wit a wee wiggler stuffed down dey armor, HAR!  em pants trout grow whiskers onnah lad fast!

Been ah long time since ah been der, dey done send meh down ter Hlint on account ah how easily Mistone bein breeched. Em drow took un of em biggest cities, Spellguard wit little trouble.  Bloody untrained idjuts wouldn't last a week at da Gate!  Up ter meh ter whip em inta shape, only way dat gonna happen iffn dese lazy 'umans an 'obbits learn emselves da value ah hard labor!  Chip dat rock, gurad dat ox, git ye buggers obeyin orders afore ah wacks em wit me 'ammer.  BAH!  untrained, good fer nothin idjut sons a barmy squall, nay discipline in em!

[lonnarin]

Been much betetr since ah got me mah tidy lil empire.  Been 4 emeralds found now, an ahm dubbed da luckiest dwarf in da land!  Rather'n blow it all, ah've bought me a warehoose out in Liellon, dat port city closest ter da Queen's castle in Blackford. Ah sent Queenie ah gift package when ah moved in ter be alkl neighborloike; 3 pies ah apple, blackberry an raspberry, wit a full CRATE of homemade Tower Malt!  Well over foive hunnerd bottles in der, she remember meh real well now, har!

Ah loikes da spot, prolly da safest spot in da world from Bloodstone's forces, meanin it prime real estate fer stockpilin an transportin goods.  Dat port sails straight ter Hurm, which be onna path fer em silver an diamond mines.  Headin roun da broken forrest ter Hampshire sends meh ter Point Harbor, another large city, an wit Karthy just a trek away another boat sails meh ter Rilara, home ah tha gold mines!  HAR!  bes way ter git gold be wit a pickaxe, ah always says.

Sellin gold bars at 400 apiece, platinum at 500, iron at 50... bidness bee real good.  Whole lot better'n when ah dug sand fer a month.  AYe... nothin make ye sit back an reflect on ye life loike diggin a ditch inna desert.  You start da shovelin an ye got dis real noice plan ter make ye a hole, an all em tiny grains jus keep plummetin in from da sides.  Dat da war, humans an dwarves, Mistone an Bloodstone... dat Loife lad.  *nods strangley as if that nonsesne were something profound*

[lonnarin]

*begins writing his autobiography across a few pages*

He began the path as a Voraxian from his defensive training in Bloody Gate as being trained in the arts of pushing back invasions with his shield, then for the cause of the dwarven military. Then, after many years of service, they sent him to Mistone shortly after the fall of Spellguard to the drow in order to help the humans increase their defenses, seeing the untrained folk of that continent as a liability of international security. When he arrived, he soon learned why the topsiders were doing so poorly; they're all lazy beggin bums who wouldn't know a hard day's work iffn it bit em on tha keister and made babies with an ettin!

Balking at the outrageous prices of armors, he set into the mines himself and began learning the trade of armorcraft, seeing the best offense as a sturdy defense against the seiging forces. He chipped and chipped and worked the forges day in and day out, and soon managed to find his 1st emerald... enter Bjorn the aristocrat. Being fabulously wealthy, he bought himself a tux and began guarding his wealth and trained vigorously his armorcrafting.

His fighting style also comes from his immense, bloated size. Pushing the scales at 440lbs, he is simply too fat to consistantly jog across the realms and do anything but brace and take the beating, wearing foes out with time and persistance rather than mounting crushing offenses. Hence, he learned defensive stances rather than offensive ones. He also found that his specialization in his chosen weapon, the warhammer allowed him to train his meaty arms in the battlefield as well as the forge, imagining the skulls of giants to be like brittle ore on an adamantium anvil. A hefty sack of gemstones, ore and tastey veal in tow, he set out to become the best armored dwarf in all the land. With human made wares flooding the market, he had no patience for skinny little sub-dwarves and non-veterans to do the job, so he did it himself. He went into the mines for the next few months realtime, and found 2 more emeralds to increase his wealth. The consistancy he's noticed is that its whenever he's obsessedly crafting that such things are bestowed upon him.

With even more wealth under his belt, a room full of literally hundreds and hundreds of gems and huge crates stacked full of armors of every type up to adamantium, he could not trust other, less wealthy and less honorable buggers to watch his resources for him. So he defends himself, the ultimate dwarven aristocrat, the eternal dwarven cause of hard labor and craftsmanship and making armors that don't crumble under the blade or blunt, and the only thing missing for him was a dwarven deity on that list of causes to fight for.

He kind of shrugged with heavy blubbery shoulders, as godfolk usually spout such barmy views like "generosity" and "holdin hands, bleedin-heart, treehuggin shennanigans" and decided to spread his knowledge to others. Xenos filled the gaps of spell-enhancing and other such sparkly goodies that no dwarf should do without, and despite wasting an entire room on a silly library, he still promised the dwarf that his research would lead to enchanted ores and possibly transmuting copper into gold. Willy Catpaw, though small and gangly was a bloody natural at chipping gems and inventing, his wee nimble fingers like Kathy Lee sweatshop children working quickly to make the things his fat stubby fingers could not. Unthuz, though being a stinkin no good idjut drow, seemed fairly strong and interested in learning a trade... "Oolright lad, ah rent ye a room in me hoose iffn ye fills it entirely fulla weapons! Ah dun make em meself, but ah kin teach ye where all da good ore is an how ter git at it. Now ye buggers, ye gonna keep at dat forge and keep workin at it until ye quite being a blood drow! AAARGH!" Soon like a treehugging, obsidian rumplestiltskin on paint chips, the dark elf did as was tasked of him, becoming a bidness partner in the great line of forging.

Life was good for him over the months, his armors further enhancing his defensive style of battle and his massive funds entirely poured into perfecting the art. Being so fat and hardy, there was no crafter alive who'd offer him a decent price on double-wide platemails, though it was useful in that he did not have to add much padding, his bulbous form jiggling beneath the gongs of battle as he protected his ore from hordes of ogres and giantkin who'd do naught but stare at the shinies without the foggiest clue of what to do with them. It was during a trip to the mines with a big fighter strangely named "Fragsnot" that he recieved his 1st blessing from a god that couldn't be attributed to pure luck...

He and Fragsnot swung their pickaxes in tune, ringing out small earthquakes through the corridors. Yelling out, "By Dorand, ah want dese bloody bags FULL or ah ain leavin!" he was then hasted anonymously and chipped yet another mystery mineral. Yes, the mineral bath would soon reveal, yet another emerald.

At this point he gave up just paying lip service to Vorax, the idjut who never gave him nothin but a lowly position as a drill isntructor, and his eyes widened to the realization that indeed, somebody *was* watching. Since the one consistancy he's found has been that it's always happened when he was either making armor himself, or helping others learn to make armor, he figured it HAD to be Dorand and decided that he wanted to convert his faith. Better to pay back the god who graced you than to pay lip service to a dolt who just points at orcs and screams, "KILL!", never giving anything back but scars and broken merchandise. It was Dorand, not Vorax, that helped him gain what he has today... and it suddenly made sense to him why he preferred the hammer to the axe. "Why kinnah ye be more like ye brudder!" he scowled at Vorax, waddling out of the crafthall one dwarf richer than any other, save for Gloin.

Hard work, perseverence, QUIT BLEEDIN! These are what make a dwarf great. Besides, Vorax'd have him become a bloody paladin and take some kind of poverty oath, it's DORAND who idolizes the words... "Git tah WORK!"

So now, Bjorn is his own aristocrat, his cause is to be the best there ever was at any craft he sets his mind to, his way of life is spent about 90% of the time in a mine gathering more ore for the forge, all he needs now is a god to look up to and thank for all he has. All the bloody mortals that think they're owed something by him can go pike off... AAARGH!