The dwarves have spoken little of their time in the far lands. They seem as if both wanting to forget the war they fled and prepare for its eventual return. Not even in drink will they speak of the old world, of strange dark-haired men and creatures known as Alfheimers. If they do speak of anything of the old world, of the lands far across the sea it is in hushed tones, as if fearing that the darkness there will latch on to their words and travel like the light of the sun to Eira. I have gleaned little information in my time at Blackgaard Fortress and to be honest, Master, I wish to return home to the archives and rolling hills of the central lands.
Finally! Oh thank the Goddess of Light and knowledge herself, Master! I have finally gleaned something from these blasted dwarves! No by ways that that the Cartographers would like, but something none-the-less! Now if they’d only stop calling me a skald!
Master, I retired early last evening from their drinking halls claiming a head-ache from their “strong” ale. Ha! As if a Cat-sith would ever be so influenced by lowly beer! I snuck up into the rafters as a cat (something the dwarves have been – rightfully – worried about it) and tucked down to listen.
I am sorry Master, I did not get too much, those dwarves with their stoney voices are hard to hear when they whisper. But I found out this small tidbit:
“We were winning we were until those pointy-earred bastards closed the gates of Gimle.” Said the oldest one, a one-eyed dwarf with a beard and face twisted by scars. He is the one who scares me most Master.
Another spoke then. “Until then the Great Wolf was focused on routing them out, letting us handle the growing rot in Midg. We did not stand a stone’s chance against the hammer when they locked themselves away.”
That was all I got my Master. They were speaking to a young dwarf, one of the ones that stayed to defend the coasts. There are so few now, every year I am here my Master, less and less of the dwarven young stay.
Great news Master! I found more of the Hall of Gimle!Well, to be quite honest, not much more but it is information, and hopefully information that someday can be collected into great stacks! Oh Master, I am giddy with the idea of sculpting poems and songs of these tales!
This is what I learned, I warn you Master, this is paraphrased by myself as it came from several scraps I … liberated from the small dwarven historical stacks here (oh if you saw how they treated their books you would die!).
Gimle, the great hall of the Alfhiemer lay to the west of the Orehalls of the great chiefs of the Dwarves (these halls, we know Master were destroyed in the “final sundering” that lead the dwarves to leave their homelands). Only the Gate of Gimle can be seen from our world for the Alfheimer reside in the Eternal Spring Lands of Alfheim (This could mean that the Alfheim come from the same lands as the Au-Sidhe, and may be cousins are a different race entirely!).
This Gate opens at the dawn of every morning and closes at the dusk of every day. It is said that only great magic could keep the door closed and that only magics from Alfheim itself.
And that is all, Master. I am sorry but these dwarves seem to have no will to remember their history in anyway that I can fathom. They sing songs and speak in parable, and often in their own tongue. If they have a true history to lean than I must step-up my learning of their language. Unfortunately, as you know, that is difficult because they will not let an outsider formally learn it.
Master, I beg that you either send me help or a replacement! I long for the feel of the road again and conversation with others of my kin!