------------- The Chronicles of Taure – Fodrin

Fodrin stepped slowly out into the light. It had been nearly a century, if not longer, since a Vlorst’blutag had come this far west. He wasn’t at all sure what kind of reception he’d get. The stories of this Free Haven had barely made it to the borderlands of Gallatan. And though he had no particular desire to wander far from home, here he was anyway, five hundred leagues from Dorrast. Stepping onto the docks of Highaven, he swore he’d never get within a league of the ocean again. But he was still in Highaven, a port awash with the smell of sea salt, gulls and rotting seaweed,… and ten thousand humans and elves.

Fodrin Oldorsson had grown up as most other dwarves, hearing the tales of war and hardship brought by the Dragonlords and the war they fought against the humans and the elves. He heard of the destruction of the lands that drove the Dwarven people underground, behind the gates of the underground cities of Dorrast and Silfdorgarat. He heard of the betrayal of the westerners. And he knew of the Orcs, Goblins and Trolls, and the need for him to grow up fast and become strong so that he could join the unending fight against them.

So grow up he did, and fight he did, for his fate was to become one of the warrior priests of Moradin. But his heart, his mind, and his soul had always belonged in the forge, in the workshop, making things of great or small import, always built with care and ingenious craftsmanship. He wouldn’t toil in the mines. He had no interest in hoarding gold or trading in iron and mithril. He would labor for days over a child’s toy that walked, or months to build an articulated gauntlet.

However, his faith and honor always called him back to the way of the warrior, for his home was rarely safe from constant Goblin raids. And then, one day, they simply stopped. The Goblin villages were all empty. They had simply disappeared. The news sent murmurs of dark magic through the Dwarven communities. The Thanes were clearly worried, but there was rejoicing nonetheless. Most of the Dwarves didn’t care. After a century of war, the Iron Reaches at last knew peace.

Fodrin then came upon a strange device. After a bit, he realized it was a time piece. Its markings were unlike any he had ever seen, yet he could read the writing of many languages. Where did this marvelous thing come from? What craftsman could build so delicate a thing? He had to know.

Thus began his journey of discovery. His brother Frodrik told him he was mad, chasing after the mystery of some toy that told you no more than where the sun was in the sky. His father shook his head and curled his beard. His mother smiled and put on a strong face, but he knew she’d be crying as he left. He had his own moments when he wished he could cry, but fire forged and battle hardened, his tears had long ago dried for good.

Now, standing on the docks of Highaven, everything opened up before him like it had all been a bad dream. The docks were busy. People rushed here and there. He was reminded of the mines in Dorrast or the great forges there. But here he was the stranger, a dwarf amongst giants, humans and elves. There were others here and there, of races he couldn’t even guess, most drawing crowds of curious onlookers. In this, a single dwarf in heavy armor with a Dwarven hammer and shield barely drew a glance. It wasn’t until he managed to strike up a conversation that he learned that he wasn’t the only dwarf in Highaven. The other one was the glorious Shorna Felshard, one of the Ladies Nine.

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