*A leaflet, stamped with the seal of the Sunderstone clan. The page is yellowed with age, and is likely several centuries old. It is written in an archaeic dwarven script and likely hard to read, but every member of the Sunderstone family knows the document well.
The seal on the letter is a sword pointing upwards, with two triangles beside it, one with an ordinairy looking hammer in the center, and the other with a beautiful looking one, even for mere ink and wax. Lines come off the other hammer, filling the triangle, as though it were shedding light. All of this is surrounded by a circle, and takes up little room. It is the sigil of the Sunderstone Clan; the great Sunderstone sword cutting a block of granite in two; one blessed to Duin, head of the line, and the other blessed to Dorand, god of craft.*
Let it be known that the sword Sunderstone is a well and good sword, and cannot be touched by the hands of evil. It's cut burns the flesh of demons and dissolves the flesh of devils, vaporizes undead and repels magic of all sorts. It is the sword of our line, and our clan shall forever adhere to it's inscription which I now write plainly, reading it off the fine blade.
"Where evil doth lay it's vile head, thou shalt Sunder it. Where evil doth make it's lair, thou shalt crumble it. Thou shalt be stalwart, and thou shalt be strong, a defender of thine clan and thine neighbor's clan."
On the hilt is our family's motto, "Make to be."
I shall describe the blade, and shall then tell the story.
The blade gleams, harkening itself of the finest mithril metal, never scratched nor shorn. Blood of anything less than Grand the Vile shall never stain it's blade. The blade is wide and long, and considered a hand-and-a-half sword. Fused into the middle of the blade, near the crosshilt, is a perfectly cut diamond. The crosshilt is the make to look like the blades of two axes sprouting from the haft-like hilt. The hilt itself is a coil of finest mithril-adamantium alloy, wrapping it's way tightly about the mithril shaft, fusing itself to the pommel. And the pommel is a great diamond itself, flawless in it's brilliance. Truely, there is no finer a blade.
The maker of this great artifact was Duin Goblincleaver, a mighty chap of his own reckoning. He was great for a dwarf. Tall, wise, smart, with a handsome beard and a look to the eye of one of majesty. And he was a greater smith. Nowhere did he go without his torch and hammer, and nowhere did he go without his wits. When in battle, he wore a heavy suit of fine mail, cobalt of make. When smithing, he wore nothing but his breeches, knowing the worth of a good shirt for smoking in.
Fort Strongstone is an ancient place, hidden away deep in these mountains from the outside world. We trade with those of Blackford and Hampshire when we can, though keep mostly to ourselves. I do hope this never changes, for it is a good life to live. There is much to mine; we shall be here for centuries upon themselves, easily. A rich cavern with much in the way of copper, tin and iron easily accessible, with adamantium, platinum, gold, silver, and cobalt a bit deeper into the bedrock. Myths of a great cavern of Mithril are not unheard of, but they say something guards the deep, something terrible. A dragon perhaps, or perhaps worse.
Duin was never one to worry of such things, rather busying himself with working on shipment after shipment of ore, smelting it and smithing it into whatever the community needed. He was prized as one of the greatest smiths of his time, and of our line he is certainly the greatest. Never a nugget of ore was spoiled at the forge by his hands, and never was an ingot mangled in such a way as to be unusable. Truly, Dorand was with him.
And then there was the calamity of ages ago, when drow and duergar led mighty hordes of goblins against Strongstone's gates. Duin found very quickly that fighting with his smithing hammer and wearing the chainmail he had at the time was of no use. And so set about a mining expedition. He would sneak past the lines of goblins and duergar and drow, to come back with enough metal to make something of use.
And so he was gone. They say he left for more than a year, and traveled deep into the underdark. Whether or not this is true is left to speculation and thought. But we can only believe he found those ancient mithril deposits, for he did return with many supplies, and he did return alive, bearing mithril, diamonds, adamantium, and iron, to be used by all in Strongstone to make items that might hold back the evil denizens of the Underdark a bit better.
And so he lit the forge at home, and set to his work. He slaved day and night, working on an item of beauty. He prayed to Dorand, and priests of Dorand came to him to aid him, and to worship before his hard working dedication. They say he rarely found time for food, drink, or sleep.
He set about the smelting of his ore and the cutting of his diamonds. He shaped pure ingots and many-faceted gems, and then began his smithing.
Some say lights flashed brightly in the fortress for several days, as the sword was crafted. Hammerfalls were heard from Duin's home for weeks on end, relentless, never stopping.
The gate was breached and goblins began swarming through. The guards had a hard time holding them back, especially when the duergar and the drow showed up. Things quickly looked grim.
And then Duin came forth, wearing the finest suit of cobalt armor the world had ever seen, wielding a mighty sword that glowed fiercely with power enough to stop the combat. His shield was on his arm, and the standard of Dorand emblazoned brightly on every item. Duin's appearance sent many goblins fleeing, and certainly paused the combat for his brilliance.
The drow retreated, the duergar were obliterated, and any goblins left were destroyed. Duin was at the head of them, cutting a swath through the enemies to the gate, and held the gate by himself with none other than a priest of Dorand at his side, who was busilly making repairs to the gate.
At the end of all the combat, Duin looked to the sword and cut through a nearby boulder of granite with it in one swift blow. With a nod, he said, "Thy name shall thus be Sunderstone, and thou shalt name me."
And so the clan of the Sunderstone was formed, taking name after a mighty artifact that shall forever turn tide of battles defending our home. Never shall we be so invaded again.
Turvol, son of Troin, son of Gloin, son of Droin, son of Druin, son of Duin of the clan Sunderstone
