The Thurid Clan
Re: The Thurid Clan
Doughty and as stubborn and unmovable as a dwarf sitting on a barrel of beer! 
Re: The Thurid Clan
[Where Oogi Honorfist picks up the honor of recording the saga of the Thurid clan.]
I begin to write where my master wrote his last words. He disappeared in the last of the battles of Balin Thurid, lord of the hold, in defense of the Realm of Order. At the end of that long campaign, our clan settled in the new lands free from wandering and harassment after years of wandering.
In the years that have passed our clan has prospered as new veins of copper, iron, silver, and gold have been found deep into the mountains and hills of our realm. Lord Thurd had a new hold built to house and protect the newly industrious dwarves. In the halls they cast off the dusted boots and roguish furs of itinerant rangers and we grew comfortable about hearths we built in our newly won dens.
Lord Thurid built the capstone to our newly won hold when he invited an engineer of Karak Norn, Rayak Ambossforger. He came little known to us, an unproven engineer and we all didn't know his worth. Yet, wandering bands gather no hall-architects like rolling stones gather no lichen, so he was accepted into our band and he set about designing our lord's habitat. When the years of carving were finished, stonemasons had formed the columns, the pilasters chiseled to glorify our ancestors' legends, the ceilings gilded with unearthed gold, silver and gems, and the halls fashioned with maple tables and chairs, ash planks, and maple bowls full of steaming stews, we new then we had restored our clan's honor. The glorious new Thurid greathall became crowded as barrels of beer imported out of the Imperial lands and ales brewed in the valleys of our lands filled the storerooms and wetted our gullets. The roaring talk and the melodies of the bards recalled the glories of ages before Dwalin when the Thurid name was attached to peaks in The World Edge Mountains.
In those years we were happy and the joys and bounties of life seemed boundless.
Yet, any dwarf worth the knots in his beard knows that the past never relinquishes its hold on the fortunes of our race. Old trespasses, unavenged will come to haunt our kind. An old grudge can never be forgotten.
The day the past caught up with us was the day that this very book returned to us.
I begin to write where my master wrote his last words. He disappeared in the last of the battles of Balin Thurid, lord of the hold, in defense of the Realm of Order. At the end of that long campaign, our clan settled in the new lands free from wandering and harassment after years of wandering.
In the years that have passed our clan has prospered as new veins of copper, iron, silver, and gold have been found deep into the mountains and hills of our realm. Lord Thurd had a new hold built to house and protect the newly industrious dwarves. In the halls they cast off the dusted boots and roguish furs of itinerant rangers and we grew comfortable about hearths we built in our newly won dens.
Lord Thurid built the capstone to our newly won hold when he invited an engineer of Karak Norn, Rayak Ambossforger. He came little known to us, an unproven engineer and we all didn't know his worth. Yet, wandering bands gather no hall-architects like rolling stones gather no lichen, so he was accepted into our band and he set about designing our lord's habitat. When the years of carving were finished, stonemasons had formed the columns, the pilasters chiseled to glorify our ancestors' legends, the ceilings gilded with unearthed gold, silver and gems, and the halls fashioned with maple tables and chairs, ash planks, and maple bowls full of steaming stews, we new then we had restored our clan's honor. The glorious new Thurid greathall became crowded as barrels of beer imported out of the Imperial lands and ales brewed in the valleys of our lands filled the storerooms and wetted our gullets. The roaring talk and the melodies of the bards recalled the glories of ages before Dwalin when the Thurid name was attached to peaks in The World Edge Mountains.
In those years we were happy and the joys and bounties of life seemed boundless.
Yet, any dwarf worth the knots in his beard knows that the past never relinquishes its hold on the fortunes of our race. Old trespasses, unavenged will come to haunt our kind. An old grudge can never be forgotten.
The day the past caught up with us was the day that this very book returned to us.
Models Painted, 2020
70 28mm miniatureS
70 28mm miniatureS
Re: The Thurid Clan
That's a nice bit of description that is! I would quite like to be a dwarf!job wrote:When the years of carving were finished, stonemasons had formed the columns, the pilasters chiseled to glorify our ancestors' legends, the ceilings gilded with unearthed gold, silver and gems, and the halls fashioned with maple tables and chairs, ash planks, and maple bowls full of steaming stews, we new then we had restored our clan's honor. The glorious new Thurid greathall became crowded as barrels of beer imported out of the Imperial lands and ales brewed in the valleys of our lands filled the storerooms and wetted our gullets. The roaring talk and the melodies of the bards recalled the glories of ages before Dwalin when the Thurid name was attached to peaks in The World Edge Mountains.
In those years we were happy and the joys and bounties of life seemed boundless.
Re: The Thurid Clan
Small artifacts sometimes seem to make all the difference in life. When this dwarf was young he once was given a pen inscribed with the simple words, "Fate". I was raised with the stories of the glories of our ancestors that are unmatchable in their power and glory. I turned the pages dedicated to their grandeur, absorbing the details of their exploits and I was overcome with the sense of destiny that lies behind each action. I was also overcome with the feeling of inadequacy of myself and my generation.
There were times in my beardling youth, I would wander the woods and camps lost in daydreams. The longbeards would catch me and give me a stiff scolding. Inevitably they would always grumble before dismissing me, mutttering, "There is no hope for these beardlings to match the dwarves of the past. Clearly, the blood of Grimnir has faded beyond hope."
By hairs in my beard, I have let my pen and mind wander on these pages dedicated to my clan! I must get back to the record of events that have come to past.
Many of us had watch the unsettling changes come over our lord, Balin Thurid. Slowly he had taken to interest in the news of foreign lands. He sent our rangers to the far flanks of the mountains, into the realms of men, and even far off on voyages over the deep waters. When the passing merchant and trader came to our halls, he would pull them aside at supper and pry them with questions. Shortly after these changes, slayers began to flock to our hold, taking personal oaths to Balin and sleeping on the pine planks of the mead hall at night. Then there came the orders to begin stocking flour and meal, salt and barrel beef along with grinding and packing gunpowder. They were the unmistakable signs. We were preparing for a campaign.
At this time Dvallin returned to Thurid's company. Some would say he is an ageless wanderer. He possibly has seen more years than a master's arm has given strikes on iron and steal. The ancestors of the Thurid clan for generations have welcomed him into their homes and he has thus been the constant councilor of many of the blood of Hreidmar. Yet, those that call him a wanderer would be mistaken, as he has always come with a purpose in mind. As all the lords before him have, Balin lent his ear to the Wayfarer and his council was heeded and kept in confidence between the great runelord and the Son of Oesir.
We landed in the isle of Los Meurtos as the winds of winter lashed the coast.
There were times in my beardling youth, I would wander the woods and camps lost in daydreams. The longbeards would catch me and give me a stiff scolding. Inevitably they would always grumble before dismissing me, mutttering, "There is no hope for these beardlings to match the dwarves of the past. Clearly, the blood of Grimnir has faded beyond hope."
By hairs in my beard, I have let my pen and mind wander on these pages dedicated to my clan! I must get back to the record of events that have come to past.
Many of us had watch the unsettling changes come over our lord, Balin Thurid. Slowly he had taken to interest in the news of foreign lands. He sent our rangers to the far flanks of the mountains, into the realms of men, and even far off on voyages over the deep waters. When the passing merchant and trader came to our halls, he would pull them aside at supper and pry them with questions. Shortly after these changes, slayers began to flock to our hold, taking personal oaths to Balin and sleeping on the pine planks of the mead hall at night. Then there came the orders to begin stocking flour and meal, salt and barrel beef along with grinding and packing gunpowder. They were the unmistakable signs. We were preparing for a campaign.
At this time Dvallin returned to Thurid's company. Some would say he is an ageless wanderer. He possibly has seen more years than a master's arm has given strikes on iron and steal. The ancestors of the Thurid clan for generations have welcomed him into their homes and he has thus been the constant councilor of many of the blood of Hreidmar. Yet, those that call him a wanderer would be mistaken, as he has always come with a purpose in mind. As all the lords before him have, Balin lent his ear to the Wayfarer and his council was heeded and kept in confidence between the great runelord and the Son of Oesir.
We landed in the isle of Los Meurtos as the winds of winter lashed the coast.
Models Painted, 2020
70 28mm miniatureS
70 28mm miniatureS