Dwarven Smith Paraphernalia

Storyteller's Reward
10000 gold coins, 1125 experience

Their Story
This is their story, as told by the Storyteller:

"I see the flames of the forge. It is so close I can touch it. The heat sears my face, and the sparks sting my cheeks. But there is no fear in my soul, only admiration and reverence for the work of an artists." The Storyteller seems to be in some sort of trance. His unseeing eyes reflect the flames of a forge that burned out long ago.

"I am Kolgan, an apprentice of the great Dzarif, the First Smith of Bronzeshield Fortress, and I am fascinated by the works of a true master. The smith's hammer is raised in the air, the forge bellows roar, the sparks sizzle, and rhythmic ringing fills the room. The Anvil, called the Searing Palm, replies with a happy, booming voice. This music, this song overwhelms my being. I feel a tear of joy run down my cheek and hastily wipe it away, for it is proof of my weakness."

"The tongs in my hands are covered with soot. I help the master all I can, but I am not allowed to raise my own hammer over the anvil. Master Dzarif protects his anvil zealously, won't let anyone else near it. It usually offends me, but not now. Now, my heart follows the ringing beat of a fiery song."


 * "What makes this anvil so special? Is it enchanted?"
 * "The anvil was created by Ordleif Langebukk herself in ancient times, when the dwarves, full of hope and inspiration, build fortresses along the Shield Road. Ordleif gave this anvil her voice and named it the Searing Palm. Ever since, the anvil sings hymns in praise of the sublime crafting skill of its great mother-creator."


 * "Why won't Master Dzarif let you work the anvil?"
 * "He says I'm not worthy. He says I have no talent, no spark of creation in my soul." The Storyteller's lips curl with contempt. "He says that all I can do is copy the work of others."


 * "What are you making?"
 * "I... I can't see. I don't know. I don't care." The Storyteller shrugs and frowns. "This is my master's work, not mine. It doesn't bother me."



"All I hear is silence. Bronzeshield Fortress is sound asleep, save for the blinking of the signal bonfire. No one knows of the blasphemy about to be comitted in the heart of the fortress." The Storyteller chokes down a lump in his throat. "I push open the doors of the smithy. I fear the door's squeal of protest will wake everyone, but silence quickly returns. I take a step inside."

"I stoke the fire and don my soot-smeared apron. Long have I dreamt of the anvil it calls to me. Its alluring voice captivates me. Its ringing is full of promise. Tonight, I will work the anvil myself! Tonight, I'll become a creator! And Master Dzarif, upon seeing my work, will be forced to accept me as his equal! The fire rises to the ceiling, and I raise my hammer to make the first stroke."

"Something's wrong. When did I make a mistake?" The Storyteller's face collapses. "The anvil... it won't sing. It moans under my hammer. Instead of sweet music, I hear cries of pain, begging me to stop. I clench my teeth and strike again. And again. And again. I will MAKE it work. It WILL sing for me, even if I must torture it to do so."

"The moans of the anvil become a monotonous rumble. But I can't stop. The smithy doors swings open, and Master Dzarif stands before me, disheveled and furious. He screams curses at me, but I can't hear them. The metal of my work crumbles under my hammer, but I can't see it my eyes are blinded by tears."

The Storyteller shakes his head to clear it of the visions, a weary smile on his face. "Well, that is it."


 * "But what happened to you I mean, to Kolgan?"
 * "I he left. Hung his apron on the hook, tossed away his hammer and tongs, and left Bronzeshield Fortress. Deep in his heart, Kolgan knew that Master Dzarif was right all along. Kolgan's hammer would never create a masterpiece. Hard work is a poor substitute for inspired talent. Kolgan turned his eyes to Droskar."
 * "The god of the dark dwarves accepted this new follower. The duergar gave Kolgan shelter and provided him with unceasing, tiresome work. work that required no talent, just endless routine."
 * "He crafted weapons for the duergar army, and nobody expected masterpieces of him. He soon forgot all about the Searing Palm, Master Dzarif, and the blasphemy he had committed. And it seems to me that, there, in the dark tunnels, serving Droskar... Kolgan finally found happiness."


 * "What happened to the anvil after that?"
 * "It lost its voice. Bronzeshield Fortress never again heard it sing." The Storyteller sighs. "It was still functional, and the weapons made on it were durable, but nothing more. No master ever managed to craft a masterpiece there again."
 * "The dwarven weapons gradually lost their enchantments, and defending against local dangers became increasingly difficult. I suppose Kolgan's desecration was a strong contributor to the dwarves' eventual abandonment of the fortress."



Also See

 * Commandant's Journal (First Half)
 * Commandant's Journal (Second Half)
 * Dwarven Ruins
 * Searing Palm
 * Unwanted Legacy