CHAPTER ONE: Born to be a Hero (1)

     It was in the very middle of Fharen, the dwarven equivalent of the sweltering summer season, on Dhugon’s Day a quarter past the eleventh hour of the evening, when Grom was first introduced into the Realm. The little bundle of joy had bright green eyes that gleamed like emeralds inherited from his mother, a firm jaw and already the strong presence of a what-will-become impressive beard which he inherited from his father, and a burning curiosity for his surroundings, which was sure to blossom into the desire to explore vast landscapes of every terrain and color; this being a gift from his many ancestors before him.

     You see, the legacy that precedes this little infant dwarf is likened to a great and ancient Gleanwood tree, which has just sprouted a tiny, infinitesimal stem. The roots of this metaphoric family tree dates back to the Blind Ages; that is, when most of the Realm was undiscovered, unmapped, and relatively uncivilized. I say ‘relatively uncivilized,’ because during this dark period that marks the annuls history, likened to a botched ink blot accidently made by the suddenly sneezing scriber of time, the elven populous may not have been doing much for expanding geographically, but mentally they advanced with unimpeded rapidity. They were the first to experience social etiquette, spiritual meditation, verbal tact, and venerable behavior. These virtues didn’t enter the other regions of the Realm until after the Great Purging of the dreadlings. But I digress . . .

     This would bring our readers to a blurry and out-of-focus portrait of Grom’s greatest ancestor, the hard-faced and thick bearded Remnon the Dreadnaught. Notice, if you will, the mustard color the painter used to highlight the fine lines of his armor, and perhaps even the strange pendant dangling around his neck in hues of fuzzy blackness. No, it isn’t some opaque stone or dark gauntlet that proudly hangs down to his chest, which by the way is seemingly fixed in a picturesque pose of confidence. One may think it’s a trinket he fondly displayed to honor his status, but that too is false, though maybe not entirely. In reality it’s an amputated extremity, or more specifically the hand and forearm of a fallen creature, suspended by a thin wire and worn as a necklace; it’s a souvenir which was won after defeating the ravenous Clawmonger in bare-handed battle.

     It was this dwarf, Remnon, along with several other mortal beings from various parts of the Realm, who all possessed unadvisable amounts of boldness and an incurable courageousness, spearheading the previously mentioned campaign known as the ‘Great Purging.’ The extraordinary successes of Remnon’s deeds set the criterion for many dwarves born into his bloodline. It must be mentioned that a few of the traditional dwarven holidays, and even two of the five days in the dwarvish week, are named after those who have honored this lasting legacy.

 

The End

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