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Topics - Diamondedge
1
« on: November 15, 2006, 02:10:02 pm »
Tum tee tum.
I hear ya'll need a dwarf present...
Lemme edit that to make more sense.
I'm all repaired and returned. Isn't that wonderful?
2
« on: August 05, 2006, 06:33:58 pm »
Unfortunately for me, and all those that enjoy RPing with me, I am going to have to take a prolonged forced vacation from the wonders of Layonara. My hard drive failed/is flawed and needs to be replaced. Thankfully it's still under warrenty! Whew! So uh, I'm going to have to wait for those idiots at the computer repair place to think of me as something other than an ignorant simpleton. I know exactly what's wrong, and know what needs to happen, but you know how those repair places go. Anyways, I'll have my computer back in... God knows.  And -then- I have to find the CD for installing XP to my computer again, plus all the drivers. So I'll be gone for a while. I hope the world can get on without me. 
3
« on: July 29, 2006, 05:20:15 pm »
Is it too much to ask that drow, dark elves classically known for their obvious worship of evil things, be required to wear hoods when visiting civilized areas, to at least conceal their identities so that the commoners do not get all up in a panic again? I move that we make it a requirement, for the sake of those who do reside within these civilized, proper places. They would not know how to deal with seeing a dark elf, no matter the dark elf's intentions or particular interests, be they good or terrible.
We let these drow escape their lives of evil for whatever reason they need to leave, to live among us, and to benefit from our wonders and peace and well meaning. I think they should return to the community this little bit of stable sanity, so that no longer do parents lock their doors and close their shutters and keep their children inside during the day.
Why should these folk be forced to live in fear because a few drow, however well meaning, choose to blatantly show off their identities for all to see, for all to fear? If I have children, I should certainly not want to have to keep them away from the public places such as the well or the inn, and I don't think I should have to.
You refugees of the underdark, you claim to love the community, to mean it no harm... then why do you instill fear in the populace? If you really do care for these people, don a cloak and wear your hood low, so that they may at least go about their days in ignorance of your residence amongst them.
There was a time when drow weren't allowed in Hlint. We have made major steps since then in the world of tolerance, but you cannot expect too much from simple farmers, hunters, millers and miners. These are not adventurers. These do not do great things and learn that fear has no place in their lives.
It should be made a law to protect the common folk that drow are required to hide their identities while in city-limits all over Mistone. Let us start with Hlint and Port Hampshire, and expand from there. The residents came first, after all, and we can consider the drow as visitors. Would it not be more fair to service the people who have worked for so many hard generations to make these lands what they are now?
Especially in this time of darkness, with the skies clouded over with pestilence and decay. The people need safety and security in their daily lives, not to see a haunting figure from so many scary stories told as children, the flesh and blood boogeymen of their worst nightmares everytime they go out to fetch a pail of water.
~Turor Sunderstone
4
« on: July 17, 2006, 10:19:51 pm »
Beard Grooming
A spot of lore by Turor Sunderstone
Lo, should the time be before dwarves were forged from the tough steel they're made of, when the only two dwarves in all the realms should sit upon a lonely mountaintop, staring into a pond and wondering what might happen should someone wish to see them.
For you see, although great friends, Vorax and Dorand started out as a very competitive sort. Each one tried to best the other; Vorax could cleave a great mountain in half, carve lakes with a single swipe of his axe, and even hunt dragons for game, while Dorand would always best him with crafts of beauty and use, even crafting that which would end the competition; The Dwarves.
But before even this, the stout two drank their mystic mead and glared into the sparkly fountain of reflection. They had each been trying to grow the longest beard, and were having sore luck. Vorax's great beard of glittering silver and platinum rolled down the one side of the mountain into a great lake, and Dorand's beard of gold and mithril rolled down the other side, into a deep forest.
Vorax said, "Lo, brother, but our beards, they grow too long, let us end this petty quarrel and cut these great beards clean off!"
Dorand, growing furious with Vorax at this, said "You only wish to cleave the beards because you expect me to be stupid and do it first! I would never take my beard before you!"
And so the two would stay there for eons, growing their beards. The veins would reach deep, deep within the earth, and grant future dwarves the greatness of metal veins. Of course, the two dwarves stood atop the mountain for a long while, bickering about who ought to cut their beard off first. Finally, they came to a conclusion. They would tie the beards together around waist level, and cleave them off together.
And so they did. But the trouble with cutting it, so even were Dorand's cuts, that the beards frayed everywhere! They parted wildly, until both dwarves looked like balls of fuzz from the waist up.
"We must do something about this, Brother!" cried a frantic Vorax.
And so they did. They each took a mighty cord of platinum and tied all the hairs together, binding them at their waist. As they did this, the sun began to rise on the horizon.
And so would two traditions be born of this; Every morning, a sensible dwarf keeps his beard tidy and clean with the rising sun. And also, all dwarves shall forever take mining as a holy practice, but not because the metals you collect are needed or useful; You should mine religiously because as you do, you are trimming the gods' great beards, which should be not a duty but a gift and honor.
~Turor Sunderstone
5
« on: March 09, 2006, 10:52:30 pm »
Well, the joke has been funny, and it's played itself out to the bitter end, but alas, now I need a bit of aid from a person in the GM department.
You see, Turor made the mistake (The hilarious, most funny mistake) of making a key for his house and giving it to Aleister. What did Aleister do? Bought about a dozen bathtubs, and put them in every single room of the dwarf's house. I believe Acacea was in on it, too. >.>
Anyways, these bathtubs are here to stay even after Aleister has left. Can I get someone to deal with it? I dunno what has to be done, but I'm tired of running through the house like a crazed dwarf, carrying my warhammer and bashing porcelain bathtubs into dust. Every single time I log on.
6
« on: March 09, 2006, 03:29:36 am »
I have noticed, very recently with my playing on Layonara, an influx of evil-wanabes. Those people that put dark, black, scary clothes on and growl and glare and yell and scream at all those around them. Exclusion here is Derrick. We love that teddy bear of a man! Anyways, I think that the people that are trying to RP their way into an evil allignment need a bit of... resource-help. I have gone over this problem with people in my D&D group over and over and over, but it doesn't seem to sink into their heads. Evil does not mean rampant murder, nor does it mean not helping those in need, nor does it mean insulting people in broad daylight, worshipping evil, heathen gods in the town street, sacrificing people in front of large audiences, etc etc, and so forth. And since my CN thread seems to have disappeared into the sands of time, I think it's high time I write up another under-appreciated article on how to RP allignment effectively.  Thus, without much further delay... [SIZE=16]Diamondedge's Guide to Villainy![/SIZE] Evil is Deep First off, characters do not just wake up and decide they're going to put people to the sword rather randomly. They are not just born with the terrible thoughts of wreaking havoc, causing chaos, and destroying all living things for the greater glory of whatever. They do not decide one day that they don't want to play by the rules anymore, and they do not suddenly decide that they're just going to abandon honour completely. Evil needs a reason to exist, and it is usually a form of lashing out due to some form of trauma in a character's life. Perhaps their family was murdered, and they were forced to watch. Revenge turned into cold, murderous contempt for anyone that was happy, because why should the Gods gift person A with a happy family life after so brutally taking away person B's happy family life? Influence of other characters, people, or deities is another sure thing. Corath, for instance, likes followers. However, don't take this as "Corath says to kill, so I kill." There needs to be a reason to follow Corath, too. And it's usually either temptation that does the trick. Sometimes an evil god might offer a character a chance to deal with the wrongs that have been done to them in a way that is far more satisfying than what a goodly god might offer. Solace in the fact that the souls of the deceased have moved on to a better place does not always ease the heart. Anyways, basically, evil needs a reason. Evil Likes to Hide In a land of goodly values and such, where paladins openly walk the streets bravely, high upon their mounts, making all the citizens feel safe and happy, evil does not want to be seen. More wicked and terrifying is the thought of a blackguard posing in the streets as a Paladin, wearing a suit of gold and silver armor and a flowing, royal blue cape, than the idea of a dark-armor wearing, wicked man who's very presence is unnerving. This is because Paladins need to concentrate for only two rounds to realize that there is evil that needs to be smote. Evil hangs out in alleys, hides in sewers, cabals in private locales, wears normal, perhaps even stately clothing, and keeps quiet to itself, perhaps even plays along with the good bit, while it exists in lands alongside paladins. Evil strikes from the shadows and retreats immediately. Evil does not walk into the square of town and start insulting people and turning them away while in a good land like Hlint, unless there is already a large amount of discimination against the people being insulted as it is. An example of this is drow. Nobody should be trusting them because of the wicked, evil, sinful reputation of drow in general. Thus, an evil man could get away with saying "Get out of town, wicked, vile creature!" and nobody would really question his morals, so much as agree heartily. In short, Evil does not make it's presence openly known in good lands, and rather tries to blend in. I don't think Sinthar Bloodstone's agents walk around in Hlint openly, although I'm almost positive they're there, somewhere, spying on the goodly people of Mistone. Villains do NOT triumph Villains are meant to lose. If you play an evil character, expect to be foiled again and again. This is simply how the world works. Evil might get it's victories here and there, but ultimately, good will always come out on top. There are several reasons for this; evil does not generally ally itself with anyone, and if it does, it only allies itself until the usefulness of the alliance is used up. Good, on the other hand, will ally itself on a broad scale if it means taking down villains. In Synopsis Basically, brash scumbags that say "Praise be to Corath, may all you Hlints burn in the fiery pits of the second layer!" or "You stupid ugly fool, you are weak and deserve nothing but to die," or any form of insult, or those that openly declare themselves as evil... do not last. No evil really lasts, but especially not those ones. Oh, and just to put down any arguements right here and now, No, evil cannot triumph, ever, and the only time it ever does is when the vast majority of people are apathetic to the concerns of the evil-doing. As such, Sinthar may indeed conquer the entire world, and we'll all have nobody to blame but ourselves, who go "Let's go hunting!" or "Let's go have a party" or "Let's go have a picnic!" And now, I rest my case. Use this knowledge, my child, and excel in life.
7
« on: December 02, 2005, 09:41:00 pm »
So, how long until Sinthar's roasting Hlint's bindstone, then?
~Anonymous
8
« on: November 06, 2005, 08:19:00 am »
Stoically, he pushed through the door of his house again. His knees trembled; they would barely hold him up. Ach, gods, he looked to the ceiling, another tear finding it's way out of his hard, black-diamond eyes, to trickle down his cheek. He closes and locks the door, falling against it. The old black beard had gone opposite, now, becoming a very whispy, thin white; soft to the look and feel. Pale face beneath dirty soot and caked mud was streaked by many tear-runs.
He sobbed bitterly, and slowly, shakily stood, leaning heavily against the door he had just locked. He had lost much weight, and quite a bit of muscle too. He hadn't eaten since he had heard the news. He hadn't dreamt of anything but him, him and constant ale; ale quelled the sadness growing in him. Curse his dwarven blood! It didn't do the trick; the ale was hardly effective, it could not drown the pain.
Another tear dripped down off his moustache, and he gave another full-body sob. Slowly, he found his way into his hallway, almost collapsing a few more times. He hobbled over to the side of the hall and picked up his hammer, leaning on it, crooked over it like an old man using a cane, heavy hammerhead thudding constantly on the ground; his total reliance on Dorand, personified, for Dorand was the only thing keeping him going anymore. That, and the ale.
He had missed the burial; he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. Looking back, the last thing he had ever said to the wizard was that he hoped the mage would just keel over. And that he did, much to the dwarf's dismay. Thud, thud, thud, up the stairs now. He opened the door to his room, and hobbled in front of his mirror, brushing a veiny, shakey hand over his stark white beard. His face, dirty as it was, bore deep wrinkles; he had aged far faster than he should have. He was going to collapse due to a withering disease; a sped up longevity. He would be passing any day now, and he could feel it. But damned, he was in the last legs of his journey as it was; the wizard was supposed to outlive him.
He hobblingly made his way over to his desk and clambered up into his chair. A shakey hand took several minutes to calm down, before he could grab the quill and begin writing on parchment. The scratch of the quill grated on his nerves, bothering his poor old ears, rather than bring him the joy that it once did.
"When can dwarves stop mourning? We watch brethren drop like flies; we are hardened to sudden loss. And yet it stings, yes, it stings deeply. When can dwarves shirk their burdens, when can they look to the sky, see through the rain and clouds, and realize that the sun still shines? When can he enter the smithy, look past the smoke, the fumes, the sparks, and see that the furnace still burns?
When can a dwarf dry his eyes? With halflings and humans for friends, what's a dwarf to do but outlive them? How many times must a dwarf go through the pains of loss in his long, weary life? A warlike race, we do not know brothers, or sisters, or mothers, or fathers for very long. When shall we stop weeping for them?
How can a dwarf forgive himself for his longevity, and finally stop crying for the lost, the fallen, the dead and left behind? How is a dwarf supposed to steel himself against these feelings of grief and heartache, when those closest to him pass away? On the outside, we are supposed to be as the stone; grim, grey, unyielding but to the mightiest of blows. But inside, we splinter like cheap wood; we crumble like weak, bitter sandstone. We flatten like clay, and run like mercury. So how can a dwarf be expected to hold it in and not collapse on himself?
Forgive me, Aleister. I beg you, forgive me. I never meant to anger you, to defile your name. You were a friend of mine; as close a brother as this dwarf can ever hope to have for the rest of his life. I never got to say goodbye; but it doesn't look like it matters, does it? I'll be along, soon enough. Soon, I'll be able to apologize to you in person.
You were my only ally; my greatest friend. You were the one I could count on, surprisingly enough. Yes, you were stubborn on the outside; stubborn as a dwarf. But I'd rather have you covering my back than fifty thousand of my ancestors and kin. You were a great man, and I'm sorry to see you get such a lack of respect, even in death. You were meant to be revered, weren't you; like a flawlessly cut diamond, you were supposed to be respected. But at the same time, you knew how to laugh. Dorand bless you, then, mighty one. You were more dwarflike than the rest of them, so able to dig in your heels, never turn back.
Damn you, though, for dying. You weren't supposed to die; not so young. The sixties is hardly an age to fall; you should have aspired to live to the eighties; the nineties, even. You were supposed to bury me. You were supposed to pile a cairne over one of those bathtubs in my house that you've lain. You were supposed to cremate me in one of the furnaces you'd wreck my home to make. I was supposed to go before you, mage. Damn you, making an old dwarf cry again."
The dwarf coughed loudly, and a bit of bloodied spittle landed on the document he scribed. Clerics and Paladins had come to him, to heal him, though he had turned them all away, even broken a cleric's nose with his hammer; this is the way he wanted it. No hero's death for him. He would weaken, decay, and die in his bed. Or maybe on an anvil as he smithed his last piece; yes, that would be it, the way to go; hammering metal into something of use and beauty.
He found that he couldn't continue writing, his hands shaking once more, and so he tried to hop from the chair's seat, but stumbled and fell upon the floor instead. He laid there, sobbing silently for a moment, before pulling himself to his feet, full of resignation, and at the same time, dwarven determination; he wouldn't die on his belly, like a thief or coward; he'd die in his bed, like a dwarf at peace. But no, not yet; far too much to do to go off and die just yet.
He shuffled and stumbled as he made his way to the stairs, hammer thonking loudly on the wooden floor as he slowly wound down the curving staircase. Finally, at the base of his stairs, he made his way towards his icebox; reaching inside it, he gathered all his ales; he was bound for a trip. A trip to Leilon? Yes, and then to a treehouse; a treehouse he had yet to plant an axe into. It was the only means of mourning he could think of, not knowing where the wizard was buried, where the wizard had passed. All he could do was put the greataxe he had sworn to chop the house down with, deep into the side of the tree. It was the dwarven way, and probably the way that Aleister, in his twisted sense of humor, would appreciate the most.
Clomping noisily, weakly, down the road, he hobbles, hobbles towards his destinations. He stops to post his letter to Aleister at the Wild Surge Inn, of course; though he leaves no room below it for commenting, merely continuing on, posting his grief as best he can, hoping all might stop and mourn a moment for the lost wizard.
9
« on: November 06, 2005, 08:10:00 am »
Stoically, he pushed through the door of his house again. His knees trembled; they would barely hold him up. Ach, gods, he looked to the ceiling, another tear finding it's way out of his hard, black-diamond eyes, to trickle down his cheek. He closes and locks the door, falling against it. The old black beard had gone opposite, now, becoming a very whispy, thin white; soft to the look and feel. Pale face beneath dirty soot and caked mud was streaked by many tear-runs.
He sobbed bitterly, and slowly, shakily stood, leaning heavily against the door he had just locked. He had lost much weight, and quite a bit of muscle too. He hadn't eaten since he had heard the news. He hadn't dreamt of anything but him, him and constant ale; ale quelled the sadness growing in him. Curse his dwarven blood! It didn't do the trick; the ale was hardly effective, it could not drown the pain.
Another tear dripped down off his moustache, and he gave another full-body sob. Slowly, he found his way into his hallway, almost collapsing a few more times. He hobbled over to the side of the hall and picked up his hammer, leaning on it, crooked over it like an old man using a cane, heavy hammerhead thudding constantly on the ground; his total reliance on Dorand, personified, for Dorand was the only thing keeping him going anymore. That, and the ale.
He had missed the burial; he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. Looking back, the last thing he had ever said to the wizard was that he hoped the mage would just keel over. And that he did, much to the dwarf's dismay. Thud, thud, thud, up the stairs now. He opened the door to his room, and hobbled in front of his mirror, brushing a veiny, shakey hand over his stark white beard. His face, dirty as it was, bore deep wrinkles; he had aged far faster than he should have. He was going to collapse due to a withering disease; a sped up longevity. He would be passing any day now, and he could feel it. But damned, he was in the last legs of his journey as it was; the wizard was supposed to outlive him.
He hobblingly made his way over to his desk and clambered up into his chair. A shakey hand took several minutes to calm down, before he could grab the quill and begin writing on parchment. The scratch of the quill grated on his nerves, bothering his poor old ears, rather than bring him the joy that it once did.
"When can dwarves stop mourning? We watch brethren drop like flies; we are hardened to sudden loss. And yet it stings, yes, it stings deeply. When can dwarves shirk their burdens, when can they look to the sky, see through the rain and clouds, and realize that the sun still shines? When can he enter the smithy, look past the smoke, the fumes, the sparks, and see that the furnace still burns?
When can a dwarf dry his eyes? With halflings and humans for friends, what's a dwarf to do but outlive them? How many times must a dwarf go through the pains of loss in his long, weary life? A warlike race, we do not know brothers, or sisters, or mothers, or fathers for very long. When shall we stop weeping for them?
How can a dwarf forgive himself for his longevity, and finally stop crying for the lost, the fallen, the dead and left behind? How is a dwarf supposed to steel himself against these feelings of grief and heartache, when those closest to him pass away? On the outside, we are supposed to be as the stone; grim, grey, unyielding but to the mightiest of blows. But inside, we splinter like cheap wood; we crumble like weak, bitter sandstone. We flatten like clay, and run like mercury. So how can a dwarf be expected to hold it in and not collapse on himself?
Forgive me, Aleister. I beg you, forgive me. I never meant to anger you, to defile your name. You were a friend of mine; as close a brother as this dwarf can ever hope to have for the rest of his life. I never got to say goodbye; but it doesn't look like it matters, does it? I'll be along, soon enough. Soon, I'll be able to apologize to you in person.
You were my only ally; my greatest friend. You were the one I could count on, surprisingly enough. Yes, you were stubborn on the outside; stubborn as a dwarf. But I'd rather have you covering my back than fifty thousand of my ancestors and kin. You were a great man, and I'm sorry to see you get such a lack of respect, even in death. You were meant to be revered, weren't you; like a flawlessly cut diamond, you were supposed to be respected. But at the same time, you knew how to laugh. Dorand bless you, then, mighty one. You were more dwarflike than the rest of them, so able to dig in your heels, never turn back.
Damn you, though, for dying. You weren't supposed to die; not so young. The sixties is hardly an age to fall; you should have aspired to live to the eighties; the nineties, even. You were supposed to bury me. You were supposed to pile a cairne over one of those bathtubs in my house that you've lain. You were supposed to cremate me in one of the furnaces you'd wreck my home to make. I was supposed to go before you, mage. Damn you, making an old dwarf cry again."
The dwarf coughed loudly, and a bit of bloodied spittle landed on the document he scribed. Clerics and Paladins had come to him, to heal him, though he had turned them all away, even broken a cleric's nose with his hammer; this is the way he wanted it. No hero's death for him. He would weaken, decay, and die in his bed. Or maybe on an anvil as he smithed his last piece; yes, that would be it, the way to go; hammering metal into something of use and beauty.
He found that he couldn't continue writing, his hands shaking once more, and so he tried to hop from the chair's seat, but stumbled and fell upon the floor instead. He laid there, sobbing silently for a moment, before pulling himself to his feet, full of resignation, and at the same time, dwarven determination; he wouldn't die on his belly, like a thief or coward; he'd die in his bed, like a dwarf at peace. But no, not yet; far too much to do to go off and die just yet.
He shuffled and stumbled as he made his way to the stairs, hammer thonking loudly on the wooden floor as he slowly wound down the curving staircase. Finally, at the base of his stairs, he made his way towards his icebox; reaching inside it, he gathered all his ales; he was bound for a trip. A trip to Leilon? Yes, and then to a treehouse; a treehouse he had yet to plant an axe into. It was the only means of mourning he could think of, not knowing where the wizard was buried, where the wizard had passed. All he could do was put the greataxe he had sworn to chop the house down with, deep into the side of the tree. It was the dwarven way, and probably the way that Aleister, in his twisted sense of humor, would appreciate the most.
Clomping noisily, weakly, down the road, he hobbles, hobbles towards his destinations. He stops to post his letter to Aleister at the Wild Surge Inn, of course; though he leaves no room below it for commenting, merely continuing on, posting his grief as best he can, hoping all might stop and mourn a moment for the lost wizard.
10
« on: October 27, 2005, 04:06:00 pm »
Why, thank you, Diamondedge.
You're quite welcome, D. I mean, I love you, man. I... *sob* I love you, man!
*bitterly weeps into his own shoulder* Happy 18th birthday on the 25th, dude...
OH MAN! Thank you! *cries more* I love you more... No I love you more!
11
« on: October 24, 2005, 02:10:00 pm »
Dwarves, we must all come together. We must be united as in the days of old, before the age of clans. We must all be as brothers once more. Our axes must now ring in the name of truth and justice, as they once did so long ago. We must look beyond the name, and look to the blood, the dwarven blood that flows through our veins, that beats the patriotic, dedicated dwarven heart. We must look to other dwarves, for only a great combined army can hope to fight back in the name of all that is goodly in this world; Only all the dwarven clans united shall triumph against the evil of Bloodstone! We must not look down on the men, the elves, the hin or the gnomes, for unless we are lal in this fight together, we will fail. They have done all they can, and until we become the great bearded wall to hold off the advances of the Bloodstone war machine, our allies in this greatest of wars will suffer defeat after defeat. We must take the next tep. The hammer is in our hands now, and we must strike the ingot flat, pound the nails of dwarven migh tinto the hellish quarry that is Sinthar. Dwarves of old have wielded the axe in the name of good for centuries, nae, millenia before our time. We must not rest, never end our toiling, until we can make the claim that we have bested our ancestors, that we have fought the most important fight of the history of Layonara. Sinthar Bloodstone is a terrible, evil general. He will not stop conquering our land, he will not settle down after quelling his sppetite, for his is the insatiable thirst for nothing but the spilling of innocent blood. And where will he go when he has claimed all the rivers, taken all the woodlands, conquered all the flats? Tell me, where will he go when he has taken the overworld and the underdark? Do you think he will stop to hear your treaties? Your swears of allegience? Do you think he will grant mercy to you, the mercy he denied all others? The answer, lads and lasses, is no. Quite plainly, no. He will collapse the great mountain ranges, sunder all the grand dwarven halls, bring down the walls of dwarven civilization and bring the dwarven peopels to dust, as he will all free peoples. But do not despair! This is not our fate, this shall not be our destiny, if all dwarves come together, and fight back agaisnt the evil now, before he is entrenched all about our halls, before he has lain waste to our allies. Be ye dwaves of vaalour! Take up thine axes and hammers, and let loose all the might and fury of the dwarven people! Now, not later, we must show the world that the dwarves, and indeed, the men and elves of all the world, too, do not just lay back and submit to evil! By the gods, we are dwarves! Not a bunch of orcs and goblins!
12
« on: October 24, 2005, 02:02:00 pm »
Dwarves, there is an unmistakable evil dwelling all across the fair world of Layonara. The others have failed at stopping it, so forcefully does He wreak havoc that all fall before the terrof of His mighty war machine. Bloodstone runs rampant throughout the lands, persecuting and destroying, elsnaving and terrorizing all peoples that fall under his grasp. The humans, though glorious and valiant, are fast destroyed as they quarrel and bicker amongst themselves, as is in their nature. They fight with honor, but so divided as they are, they fall like stones rolling down a mountainside to the overwhelming might that is Blood's fury. What of the elves, then, I hear you ask. As any dwarf is loathe to admit, they fight just as valiantly as the men, but fall without the discipline and order needed to wage war, and they lack the manpower needed to turn back the tide of battle and are swiftly overcome by the sheer onslaught. And what of the Hinfolk? The halflings are far too gentle and loving a race to be expected to step up and fight! We cannot expect them to leap to the duties of teh warrior's life anymore than we can hope to turn brittle slate to diamond. So why should such a peacable race be forced to be enslaved by His awful might? The race of gnomes is just as powerless to stop the onslaught. Neither of these peoples are interested in waging war! What they want is to aly back and enjoy their lot in life, the halflings to their fishing and smoking, and the gnomes to their tinkering and inventing. And so it is left to us, the noble dwarven peoples, the peoples of stone and metal, those who have dug into mountains and waited terrible war, terrible sieges, time and time again to emerge triumphant, it is us who must be prepared to fight back the brutal tyranny of the unjust Bloodstone, and beat him back into the hells for another thousand years. It is time to forsake duties to clan and line, to shrug off menial differences and unite under one common banner. It is in the power of each and every dwarf to do his part in the field, on the hill, in the desert, among the forests. It is in the power of the dwarves, to counter this terible bastion of evil, and emerge triumphant. It is in the power of the dwarves that victory can be sought and found! So I beseech you, dwarves of all the lands! I beseech you to forswear differences and join the fight for freedom. Sound the horns, beat low the toms of war! With all dwarves united, victory for the Free Peoples of Layonara shall be at hand! Let us fight then, fo rhte fate of all the world depends on us. Set into your true duties as dwarves and fight, brethren! Fight that great fight and if the dwarven peopels shall live for a thousand thousands years after, let peoples look back and realize taht this was our finest hour. ~Turor Sunderstone
13
« on: October 23, 2005, 11:36:00 pm »
Following are some friends of mine that I'd like to mention. They may not sum up to all there is in this world of ours to be grand, they may not be heroes or lifesavers, but they are my friends, and I, as an upstanding dwarf, think that goes far, far beyond any act of heroism. Dorand bless them all.
Signed,
Turor Sunderstone
14
« on: October 23, 2005, 10:20:00 pm »
The steel and chains of his full platemail rattled with every heavy step. His shield, bearing the standard of the great Dorand, Master of Crafts, scraped along the ground as he stepped, the heavy iron shield weighing his arm almost painfully so. His hammer, however, never touched the ground, never drew a path through the dirt road. He held his hammer high, up about chest height, carrying it for the whole of his journey up the road from Leilon proudly.
Now, at Haven, he had to pause, to look to the south, to the north, all around, to take in the majestic sight, the beautiful mountains tugging at the lad's heartstrings. Shrugging finally, he turned back down the road, heading toward his home once more. His beard was now a ragged silver, almost off white. Something was wrong with that, for sure; he hadn't aged nearly enough in his journey to have caused the great black, grey bespeckled beard, to become anything else than more grey-bespeckled. He gave a shake, and set his shield against the wall of the house. He reached into his pocket, and drew out the old key; the sacred item he hadn't lost, would never lose. Sliding it into the lock of his house, he turned it, and was relieved to find that his lock had not been changed; he hadn't been evicted.
Much exhaustion beat at his arms as he opened that door, pushed it open with his shoulder and walked in, muttering with his achey back troubling him. He stopped in the doorway and picked up his shield, chuckling quietly as he brought it in with him; foolish old git that he was, nearly forgot the sole thing that brought him home, that kept him alive long enough to turn back the goblins' spears, the orcs' axes, the bandits' knives. But now, he was home.
He noticed right away that all was as he had left it in his house. The old dwarf took two steps in and closed and locked the door behind him, looking around. Nothing had been touched. Nothing had changed; the rubble from the dismantling of that ludicrous fireplace was long swept away, perhaps by some homekeeper that a friend may have hired.
He removed his cloak and set it on a nearby hat-rack, before stretching widely. In a tempest fury, he began disassembling his plated shell of metal, dropping metal plate after metal plate to the ground. He kicked off his greaves and tossed his gauntlets to the floor. He tugged at the belt around his midsection, the one pinning his chain underhauberk to his body, and quickly removed that, as well. Over his head next was tugged the soft leather padding, the gentle tunic that kept the cold steel from breaking his body, and stood very much in the nude in his hallway, standing in those old sooty black pants. He smiled as he nodded, finally at ease, out of those damned plates.
He walked forward, and turned to go into his kitchen... and spied a large, ivory bathtub, sitting there in the middle of his kitchen, chauk full of water. A vein became quite prominent in his brow, over his eye. A shakey, tired hand grabbed at his hammer and he began to shudder violently. "Lestahr, ye durned halfwitted wizard! Ah'll chop yer treehouse down an' burn eht fer the damn pleasure o' burnen eht, ye... ye codger!"
It took him two feel strokes to destroy the tub of ivory, crumpling it into dust. The water spilled out over his everything and he growled, stepping back keenly to look at the mess. With a shrug, he decided he'd deal with it later; another time. He set the hammer down, head on the floor, haft against the wall, and dusted his hands. With a sniff, he went up to his bedroom, and began filling his bathtub with hot, hot water, pouring forth from the magical faucets. As his room began to fill with great steam, he went to his desk, pulling out a sheet of fresh parchment. He dabbed a quill in an ink bottle and drew four quick words in both the Dwarven script as well as the common. "Turor Sunderstone has Returned". At the bottom of this quick sign, he stamped it with his family's sigil, a sword's blade slicing through two halves of a triangle. In one of those triangles was the hammer of Dorand, and in the other, the axe of a long forgotten ancestor of the Sunderstones, the head of the line. All of this was encircled in a very even, perhaps perfect circle.
The sigil of the Sunderstones. Turor was back.
15
« on: October 23, 2005, 10:20:00 pm »
The steel and chains of his full platemail rattled with every heavy step. His shield, bearing the standard of the great Dorand, Master of Crafts, scraped along the ground as he stepped, the heavy iron shield weighing his arm almost painfully so. His hammer, however, never touched the ground, never drew a path through the dirt road. He held his hammer high, up about chest height, carrying it for the whole of his journey up the road from Leilon proudly.
Now, at Haven, he had to pause, to look to the south, to the north, all around, to take in the majestic sight, the beautiful mountains tugging at the lad's heartstrings. Shrugging finally, he turned back down the road, heading toward his home once more. His beard was now a ragged silver, almost off white. Something was wrong with that, for sure; he hadn't aged nearly enough in his journey to have caused the great black, grey bespeckled beard, to become anything else than more grey-bespeckled. He gave a shake, and set his shield against the wall of the house. He reached into his pocket, and drew out the old key; the sacred item he hadn't lost, would never lose. Sliding it into the lock of his house, he turned it, and was relieved to find that his lock had not been changed; he hadn't been evicted.
Much exhaustion beat at his arms as he opened that door, pushed it open with his shoulder and walked in, muttering with his achey back troubling him. He stopped in the doorway and picked up his shield, chuckling quietly as he brought it in with him; foolish old git that he was, nearly forgot the sole thing that brought him home, that kept him alive long enough to turn back the goblins' spears, the orcs' axes, the bandits' knives. But now, he was home.
He noticed right away that all was as he had left it in his house. The old dwarf took two steps in and closed and locked the door behind him, looking around. Nothing had been touched. Nothing had changed; the rubble from the dismantling of that ludicrous fireplace was long swept away, perhaps by some homekeeper that a friend may have hired.
He removed his cloak and set it on a nearby hat-rack, before stretching widely. In a tempest fury, he began disassembling his plated shell of metal, dropping metal plate after metal plate to the ground. He kicked off his greaves and tossed his gauntlets to the floor. He tugged at the belt around his midsection, the one pinning his chain underhauberk to his body, and quickly removed that, as well. Over his head next was tugged the soft leather padding, the gentle tunic that kept the cold steel from breaking his body, and stood very much in the nude in his hallway, standing in those old sooty black pants. He smiled as he nodded, finally at ease, out of those damned plates.
He walked forward, and turned to go into his kitchen... and spied a large, ivory bathtub, sitting there in the middle of his kitchen, chauk full of water. A vein became quite prominent in his brow, over his eye. A shakey, tired hand grabbed at his hammer and he began to shudder violently. "Lestahr, ye durned halfwitted wizard! Ah'll chop yer treehouse down an' burn eht fer the damn pleasure o' burnen eht, ye... ye codger!"
It took him two feel strokes to destroy the tub of ivory, crumpling it into dust. The water spilled out over his everything and he growled, stepping back keenly to look at the mess. With a shrug, he decided he'd deal with it later; another time. He set the hammer down, head on the floor, haft against the wall, and dusted his hands. With a sniff, he went up to his bedroom, and began filling his bathtub with hot, hot water, pouring forth from the magical faucets. As his room began to fill with great steam, he went to his desk, pulling out a sheet of fresh parchment. He dabbed a quill in an ink bottle and drew four quick words in both the Dwarven script as well as the common. "Turor Sunderstone has Returned". At the bottom of this quick sign, he stamped it with his family's sigil, a sword's blade slicing through two halves of a triangle. In one of those triangles was the hammer of Dorand, and in the other, the axe of a long forgotten ancestor of the Sunderstones, the head of the line. All of this was encircled in a very even, perhaps perfect circle.
The sigil of the Sunderstones. Turor was back.
16
« on: September 09, 2005, 12:06:00 pm »
Just a friendly reminder... But please don't rush the server. It makes it laggy and unstable, and ends up crashing it again. When it comes back online, please give it perhaps five minutes before joining. This just allows the server to restabalize after the crash. Y'know, run scripts and what not.
17
« on: August 22, 2005, 12:19:00 pm »
*In a neat, arcaeic script, written in Common*
There will be a very large meeting at my house for the dwarven battalion. All dwarves are encouraged to come. No one taller than a dwarf or less bearded than one will be allowed to attend, with very few exceptions.
My address is 181 Haven Outskirts, and I fully expect a large turnout. There is, after all, free ale.
Signed,
Turor Sunderstone
18
« on: August 16, 2005, 10:16:00 am »
Thah's roight, kiddies. Mineral Emerald. Richest, rarest gem on der earth, roight 'ere, ready ter be buyed.
Ah thenked private bids'd be good, bot eht's a lort tougher than jes' lettin' ye 'ave at eht on dees message boards 'ere. So...
Biddin' starts at 60,000 gold. No items'll be accepted. Jes' money. *dwarven grin* Thank ye. If thar're no othahr bids fer, say, eight hours affer yers, eht'll be yers an' grats t'ye.
Ready... Go!
19
« on: August 16, 2005, 07:48:00 am »
*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
20
« on: August 16, 2005, 06:50:00 am »
I have a few wonderful things to say. For starters, the group I was with was admirable, even though they didn't really follow orders too well... Ah well, they aren't dwarfs. We were hunting Lizards... I was about 2k away from level 8, got me up to 50 till level 8. Which was a good thing. Had an awesome time, too, because it wasn't just kill kill kill, there was so much RP involved there... And then resting and waiting for the sun, sitting around doing nothing. Too bad they all had to go to sleep. Ah well. So, I went to the crafthall, leveled up making small molds out of clay. Put a point in wisdom so that Turor isn't a stupid git anymore. Put a point in discipline. Saved the rest for tumble. Oh, took Improved Power Attack too. Makes mining that much faster. Went to leave after turning all my clay into molds. Or most of it anyways, I got REAL lucky... On a 35% chance, I made... like, 50% of the molds or more. Which made me smile. I was mining copper with my level 3 friend that I immersed into the server last night. Aleister was with us, showing Arimill a thing or two since Arimill got the game... what, a week ago? If that? Aleister showed up, anyways, and I said 'If you stick around, I'll give you some minerals, blah blah blah'. Turned out alright. Went back to the surface, he disappeared, I logged off, forgot to give him the minerals. And I'm very, VERY happy I did. Very happy. Yes. I washed them after leveling up. I got an Aventurine. Yaaay. An Aventurine. And a very VERY pretty mineral emerald. Level eight has been good to me... Figured I'd brag. 
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