Turor's Journal

[Diamondedge]

*Beerstained papers scribbled on in the inn, bound by a hardy oak-and-leather cover*

 *Written first in Dwarvish, with the common translation below it*  Dark-Deep 23, 1387
The Cow that slew Giants

Aye, I think I'll start a journal today, after what has happened to me in the last couple of hours, and I'll do it all while drinking my good, perfect tasting beer.

The day started off as pretty much any other these days. I went collecting tin to make bronze so that, well, I can start my work smithing Bronze into shields and armor.  After slaying perhaps my fifteenth ettercap and ninety second kobold, I began to think, well, why not mix it up a little and go hunt some ogres, maybe get some Iron. Doesn't sound too bad, a totally reasonable thinking pattern, I believe, considering I got a brand new sword that's twice as tall as I am that was just waiting to stick itself into a few ogres.

So, I'm in the Haven mines, killing my way through some ogres, making sure to keep my ox a good ways behind me, securely tied to whatever stalagmite or what not I might find.  So, the ogres beat the snot out of me, but they paid dearly for ever messing with a Sunderstone. Swinging my sword overhead, I cut deep into them, leaving them biting wounds to remember me by when I sent them to the hells where they were Forged.

Limping, bruised, bleeding from a few places, I tugged my ox behind me, thinking to leave the Iron for another day, when the biggest ogre I've ever seen comes racing up after my ox. Probably thinking Bessie was a good meal or something.  I turned and stuck my sword out, getting into a defensive position, not thinking to chase my ox off a bit for room to fight. After realizing I hadn't ensured the safety of my beast of burden, I felt I had made a slight tactical error.

Well, my sword bit deep into the ogre's thick hide, but not so deep as Bessie's horns went! She rammed the ogre straight in the gut when it took a swing at her. The massive ox deftly skitted out of the way of the axe and gored the ogre with her horn. The ogre squeeled like an elven maiden and crumpled to the ground, quite dead.  

And so I have given my ox the title of 'Giant-Slaying Cow'. Long will Bessie be at my side, with horns like that and a good, dwarven attitude. I bet this one's a keeper for quite a while.  

Well, my beer has run out, so I'll have to make this quick before I lose myself to the sober side of life. The ox killed her own way up out of the mine, practically... I wonder if it's a bad idea to get knives or even swords strapped to her horns...  

On that big brutish ogre, I found a dark gem... Seems pure black, almost like tinted glass. But it's a lot stronger. I think, perhaps, I'll have to put it into the pommel of a sword I shall make in the future. Maybe I'll call it 'Bessie' or 'Ogreslayer'... The name we shall have to spend some time and ale thinking about.  

~Turor Sunderstone, Dwarf

[Diamondedge]

*Written first in Dwarvish, with the common translation below it*

Damp-Chisel 9, 1387
Killing Ogres  

It has been a while since I've written in this thing. I should keep up with it more often, I suppose. The ale Yastlin's selling is pretty good still, as always. It isn't as good as my homebrew, but until I can learn to make beer for myself, I'll have to live with some non-dwarven draft. It isn't that bad, anyways.  

A bunch of us went killing ogres. That elf, Mith, came with us. I shall spare my future self and any future readers of this journal the terror of having to read and pronounce his full, real name. But I'm sure that's fine.  

There was another dwarf named Desil, the half-giant Anak and some man. I think the human was named 'Shane', but he was being spooney so I forgot right away in my frustration with him.  

Ogres are generally easy and fun to kill. But the Gods were mixing the atmosphere, I suppose, and we were all half-dazed as we clumbsily went about killing them all.  

I used my longsword, this time, and a shield. Something to keep me alive. That way, when the ogres tried to kill me, well, they couldn't. Not as easily.  

I learned very quickly that Mith doesn't like many people in the world. He insisted on being the looter, but that was fine with me; I trust him enough, even though he's an elf. We've been through a bunch, him and I.  

Things went bad. Very early on. I don't know what the human and the other dwarf were thinking; They weren't experienced with their weapons nearly enough, and couldn't take a hit like I or the half-giant could. They let themselves be cut down like fools. Mith worked like a madman to save them, but the gods would rather the world in chaos down below.  

We made our way out; Desil got all the gold, since he needs a good suit of armor anyways. But I've learned never to go killing anything when the gods are at play. It just isn't safe.  

~Turor Sunderstone, Dwarf

[Diamondedge]

*Written first in Dwarvish, with the common translation below it*

Damp-Chisel 14, 1387
Ogre Beating and Orc Smashing. Tree Killing, Too  

It has been an eventful few days. I met Bjornigar Ironguts while sitting on the side of the road, speaking my mind about the Drow problem. Seems he agrees, and we hit it off fine enough at the start. He kept speaking of his many, many gems, and I spoke of how I wanted to go smash some ogres, maybe get some Iron. So, the pair of us ran off to Haven, swords and shields at the ready, Bess charging full out beside us.  

Considering my latest expedition to the mines, the one before this, I'd have to say this was a far greater success: We swooped in like lightning, and killed all the ogres in our path. I've never met so great a warrior as Bjorn was, save perhaps Bruenor. It's no secret, then, that the greatest of the world's warriors shall always be dwarven. Of course, after this trip into the mines, I finally feel like I'm getting the hang of the front lines. It's taken years, but I can finally swing a sword the way I want to. Or at least... I feel like I can. I can take a hit too, and barely flinch.  

We made our way to the iron veins, and killed a lot more ogres. I think even Bessie got a hit or two, but I wasn't paying much attention to her in there. Every vein I picked lasted for quite a while, and I ended up filling up my ox before Bjorn got equal to even half of an oxload. We agreed to split the iron when we finished, and so he toted it out of the caves when we were finished. Made a pretty penny doing it too.  

So, I went off with Bjorn to the forge, and he helped me craft the iron nuggets into someting more pliable. He seems an expert in the field, and really does know how to make his stuff how he wants it to look. I am nothing of a smith; I was always carting ore, and occassionally smelting the copper bits for the busy smiths. Never really held much of a hammer in my life before Hlint. I've hammered out a few crude items in my day, though.  

Of course, this means my share of the iron went to waste. The pack rat in town was willing to buy all of the extra ingots for a fair price.  After all of this, I went and mined a lot of copper. And by a lot, I mean a lot. So much that I had to almost make two trips just to get the stuff out of the mines. I was determined to smelt and get better at smithing. I sat down, and did it.  

After stepping outside and getting a breath of fresh air, I bumped into that little halfling, Acacea. She needed someone to help her chop wood for her. I have no love for trees or those that live in them (hint hint) and so I told her I'd do it for her, and gladly.  

Killing orcs is like a sport to me; See how many arrows you can put in throats, in eyes, in chests... Set points for it if you like. It's a rather fun pass-time, I suppose.  

Well, I chopped all that wood for her, with her bothersome questions all the while begaling me to frustration. I could barely focus on hating the trees she was such a nuisance! But she knew where to put a sword and how to put it there, so I suppose I can live with her bothersomeness for a while.  

Of course, we made it back, and now I am sitting here, writing in this journal. Yastin's giving me a dirty look, so I'd best be off right quick. No telling what the old bugger'll do if I'm not ordering another ale from him. I daresay he likes me. I know I like him! He's got the best ale in Hlint, after all. Well... the best ready-to-drink-right-when-you-order ale. Think I'll get some more.

 ~Turor Sunderstone, Dwarf  

P.S. Something to add, I suppose for my future reference... But don't forget I'm turning one hundred and sixty nine come the twenty-ninth of this month... Better get the ale together!

[Diamondedge]

*Written only in dwarvish. There is no common translation provided with this entry*  

Damp-Chisel 24, 1387
The Start of a Secret Society  

It is completely fair to presume that this war with Sinthar Bloodstone is not going so well because of the blasted races engaged in turning him back. Bloody Gate hasn't fallen to Milara, for instance, proving dwarven supremacy in all matters of warfare.  

I met Victor Firefall yesterday. It wasn't long before we were in the inn discussing our backgrounds, and how our homelands lay in ruins. He wants to find his clan, to make sure they are fine, or to at least find out what happened to them.  

Me? I know what happened to my clan. I know all to well. It is not something we can let happen to anyone else, never again.  

And then we began speaking of Blood, and the advances he has made, and is still making. We spoke of how we, the dwarves of the world, ought to band together, to form a might coalition, something to strike back against Blood. After all, the fate of the war has been in the hands of the sissy humans and elves for far too long. The fate should now lie in the hands of the capable: The dwarves.  

And so we spoke of something of a strike team, something to fight back against the forces of Blood. This terrible war has gone on long enough.  

We spoke of ha base of operations. I suggested Bloody Gate, a fine place to start a campaign against Milara. We agreed that it would serve best as the firs tforward post, but suggest Lar as a main defense and organized headquarters. It is isolated, deep in the Greypeaks, and easy to defend for there is only one known pass which would lead to it. Given time, a dwarven construction team could build a mighty stone wall through this pass, fortified enough to rival even Blackford's walls.  

Hlint and Port Hampshire would both need to be fortified as well, though we would not provide troops to man the walls. These are central points of interactions on Mistone, and everything seems to happen in these two places.  Of course, the first business at hand is to gather the adventuring dwarves together to form the Band. Victor and I spoke of generals. He nominated Gretchen Stonebrow, should she join, as a Commander, and I nominated Bjornigar Ironguts. Together, these two would be able to successfully lead nearly any assault against Blood, and I would have confidence in it's success.  

Of course, we will have to find dwarves to line the ranks with. The only two active races battling Blood are the men and the dwarves. If we needed to supplement our ranks, or if there was a human that proved himself powerful in dealing with the forces of Sinthar, we would add a few. I know we will be needing magical support, but I do not know of any dwarven mages save Bjorn's grandfather. But the old dwarf is busy, I bet, holding back Milara from taking the lands of Rilara through Bloody Gate.  

I must think now of a course of action, some way to properly gather the dwarves of Mistone... Perhaps hold a meeting at Lar. Or Ulgird. Mayhaps even Shoufal. We shall see how all transpires.

 ~Turor Sunderstone, Dwarf

[Diamondedge]

*Written first in Dwarvish, with the common translation below it*  

Dry-Axe 3, 1388
A lost journal found again  

I thought I had lost this journal, and I am sorely glad I didn't. I have much to discuss this day, as much has happened over the past year that remains undiscussed. My hundred and sixty ninth year was very busy, very... fortunate.  

To put it in as short a word as possible; I am once again in the worship of Dorand, and once again he smiles down upon me. I believe he sent me a vision one night in my sleep. He showed me anvils, and how they were lacking soul, created by foolish hands.  

He showed me my anvil. Wrecked, with garbage laying all around it. My hammer on the ground, twisted beyond repair, terribly broken. Just as I remember it all... except this forge and this anvil meant something else. It was my blackened soul.  

I finally came to terms with my differences and follow the guiding principles of Dorand now; I craft in his name now.  Perhaps this is the basis of my grand fortune, for barely a week following this, I found a mineral emerald amongst some other, dirtier rocks. It is a sign that I am loved again, I am sure.  

With this emerald, I was able to purchase a house, which is nicely furnished now. I am proud to say I live right outside the Haven Mines, as well, and thus it is never too tough a trip to go into the depths for some iron.  

I have met many friends in this past year, among them, an elf. Her name is Araleth, and she is dear to my heart. Though none must ever know of this; what talk is this, a dwarf befriending an elf!

Acacea is slowly becoming more and more a dwarf... the transition is nearly complete. I see it in everything she does now; she is stubborn, stuck up, and preaches about her honor over anything else. I shall be making her a set of armor and a shield, no doubt, to go with the fine axe I gave her when we barely knew one another.  

And Aleister is still a cranky old mage. It would not surprise me if the young human kicked the bucket soon. He's graying visibly. My hair is taking his color as well, I think. Dust to dust, I suppose, nothing is meant to last forever.  

~Turor Sunderstone, Dwarf

[Diamondedge]

*Written in a frantic script of Dwarven, followed by a more calm hand of common*  

Dry-Axe 4, 1388
A dream of evil, perhaps  

I have just had a disturbing dream. I must pen it down before I forget the details become vague.  

I was on a mountain, wielding the fabled Sunderstone, blade aflame. Before me and several steps away was a deadly figure. Something out of all the worlds' nightmares, I am sure, for the being made my blood run cold just to look at him. He attacked me, and I blocked with the heavy sword, just in the nick of time.  

He howled in a fury and backed away several paces, before my sword melted away. My smithing hammer appeared in my hands; the ceremonial one I hold during my prayers. The one I broke and Dorand repaired. I took one swing and the being of darkness burst apart, into tiny shards of nothingness. Exploded in dust. After this, my hammer burned away into nothingness. My beard went from silver to white in moments, and my skin paled and wrinkled. I became a husk of my former self, and crumpled, defeated to the ground.  

And then I woke up, and am penning this now.  What does this mean? I cannot piece any of this together. It could very well just be a dream with no real significance... But then again...  

I shall try to sleep again. Perhaps this time I might rest my weary bones a little. By Dorand, have I become gray.

[Diamondedge]

*Written first in Dwarvish, with the common translation below it*  

Cold-Lode 21, 1396
Home once again  

I am back. It is comforting to be able to still sit in my chair at home, and scrawl within this old journal of mine, after so long a time gone. I am finally done my griefing. My disease has passed. My beard is back to black - or, rather, is now a healthy silverish salt-and-pepper, moreso than ever before. But I am done my griefing.  

It's hard to look back upon those years, though, the good times spent with the wizard Aleister. He was a good friend. A very good friend; it's a shame the Gods themselves have torn him from this realm, turned him away from the plane of the living. Denied him the life that could have been. He was such a good man; an honest man, if ever there was one. He will be missed.  

But I am back now. I am back, and done my grieving, as I have said. I have recently spent a great many years alone in the mountains, in solitude, hermitage. After deliberation, of course, I am back. I'm only one hundred and seventy eight years of age; I've a little ways to go still, I should think. I'm still young, and I've still got a great deal of life ahead of me.  

Plans, now. Many, many plans. I have returned, and so should go forth with the Dwarven Battalion, as I had thought. But I must know the status of the war with Bloodstone; the last I heard, he was knocking upon Blackford's castle. My guess is he's been pushed back, because I've still got a home to come back to.  

And now, too, a recent fascination with my past. I think I shall have to head back into the mountains, and find Strongstone, cleanse her, and bring her to honest glory once more. But with all the grays and drow in the way, not to mention the hordes of goblins at their control, I daresay it'll be an impossible task. Could very well be the last quest for ol' Turor, but at least he'll go out with a bang!  

~Turor Sunderstone, Dwarf

[Diamondedge]

*written first in Dwarvish, with the common translation below it*  

Dark-Deep 14, 1403
The Opening of the Doors and the ending of Hermitage  

Funny, isn't it, the way the years roll by, the way they pass. My beard is taking on a qute lustrous grey colour now. I haven't written in this thing in more than a decade, so it is no surprise that I have nowhere to even begin writing.  

Blood is dead. There's a good place to begin. As I've heard, from my hidden room behind the storage room, praying to Dorand, Sinthar Bloodstone is dead. And that's a good bit of news, for certain. I'm only sorry for the price his downfall costed the innocent people of Layonara.  

My sleep has been less troubled. I have talked to Aleister less and less in my dreams. Of late, it has only been a monthly occurance where I converse with him. We speak of nothing important, although in the last meeting, it has been one of those final farewells. For the best, I'm sure; it doesn't do an old dwarf like me very well to go on talking to ghosts of fallen friends and comrades. I wonder if Acacea ever found out I dug him out a day after I was shown where he was buried, and cremated him. That's a proper dwarven way. Cast him in the forge, send him back to the gods to make into something new.  

In the last meeting with Aleister, he told me to go out now, I've been planning enough. And plenty of planning I've been doing, too. I've got excavation and battle tactics all written up. Now I only have to find the ruins of Fortress Strongstone. He also wants me to give Acacea his well wishings. If she's even still alive. I haven't met anyone that could tell me of her exploits, or what has happened to her. Of course, I only really went out to accompany some lads down into the Mines.  

Which leads me to more ramblings! I was out, walking about, when I came upon a group of elves, a human, and a halfling, all about to head down into the mines. "Elves wouldn't last long against those ogres," was a prime thought in my head, so I accompanied them. One elf was all talk. He spat on me and flicked ogre blood on my already befouled armor. Not a very clever lad, him, but then I guess it's safe to say that of most elves. However, the one that wielded the bow proved to be quite the genuinely skilled lad, and the elf that fought with his fists was something to marvel at. And the human did alright, too, chopping and healing like crazy.  

The one who really amazed me was the halfling. I never learned her name, but she was tough as a dwarf, wearing heavy plate and wielding a sword with both hands. One of those exotically made swords, you know, with the broad blade and the wicked curve. A sim-ah-tarr as I believe they are called. I don't know what they are called, truely, but she was quite skilled with it. Possibly a master of that weapon. She fought nearly as mightily as I did myself, perhaps moreso. Truely I am getting older, if I am admitting to being outdone by a hin! She reminds me of what Acacea could have been. Should have been. But no, Acacea wandered about yapping and yammering on about nothing at all. I hope I run into this halfling again in the future. It might be nice to actually share stories. She even mines. I would have never figured a halfling for a miner, but there she was, a-mining away.  

I went into town, saw a drow, spat and hissed at the drow, then entered the tavern. I got some healthy bottles of ale and stomped off back home to continue my plans. I will find Fort Strongstone, and I will cleanse it of the dark that taints it. This I swear by my father's ashes, and his father's beard. I restored honour in the eyes of Dorand to my family, and I will next restore glory in the eyes of everyone to Fort Strongstone.  

But I had better do it soon. Some would argue that one hundred, four score and four years is getting a bit too old to go off venturing and killing grays, drows, and their goblin slaves. I pray that Dorand forged me with enough temper to last long enough to see my homeland a prosperous kingdom of goodness again.  

~Turor Sunderstone, Old Dwarf