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Author Topic: Felsid Greytunnel  (Read 1194 times)
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Felsid Greytunnel
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« on: January 28, 2016, 02:35:33 AM »

Update! History Part I - 70% - First spellcheck done

Felsid Greytunnel
Felsid DenArilerons, Thrumgolz Dwarf of the High Fores
Woodsmith & Gearmaker, Naturalist & Storyteller
Citizen of Voldar



I
Form & Function
"He's a strange one, that dwarf. Now when did yer last hear 'a dwarf in Voldar?
Like a bag o' knuckle charms, he is. Ol' Felsid'd talk the Armeros himself down!"

--
Age: 108 years
Family: of the DenArilerons, an aged and respected circle of woodsmiths and farmtenders who reside in the High Fores of Southern Sarvonia. A cankerous bunch, yet Felsid, alas, has had scarce contact with his old family since leaving the caverns, although the prestige of their name still tends him favourably when he runs into a fellow dwarf. He meets, on occasion, his sibling Lekuuket, who ventures to Voldar from the Fores to deliver news of his family and the clan, and perhaps drop off some of his mother's cooking, which Felsid still misses dearly. The mushrooms in Voldar just don't grow the same.
Clan: of the Thrumgolz Dwarves of Southern Sarvonia. His family hails from the High Fores, near the Goltherlon and Plains of Truoor.

Physical Form: Like many of the Pickhands, Felsid is a rough-set, compact creature, full of coarse grain and density. Like most dwarves, he grows his beard and hair out long; both are kept maintained and braided, although without excessive care. Given his locale, even Felsid is unsure whether he keeps the reddish waves of his braid out of cultural piety or in a nod to the human caricature of his people. He favours simple brass rings for binding over jewelled ornament.

Again, Felsid is rather unremarkable for a dwarf; his features are almost typically Thrumgolz: eyes of an indeterminate shade of dark, a dominating and proud nose jutting above a wide collective of mouth, chin and cheek, giving way to the dull tones of his beard. One and a half peds of average height and nearly two pygge of solid dwarven heft. Of course, Felsid is not all grey and simpleness. That plain mouth is ringed with deep lines of a good nature and laughter. That forceful nose is often cherry-red with the ember glow of drink in the company of friends and the heaviness of his brow has done little to impede the expressiveness of his eyes - unassuming as they are - which bounce and tumble as he talks. Imbued in that stocky body is a spring and clap and joviality that many find irresistible. Wherever the Father's saw fit to leave bereft of colour, Felsid has adorned with vibrancy. He loves colour and light, and so dresses to taste; bright yellows and motley tunics, glittering sequinned overcoats and daring accessories. Whilst his wardrobe may be of a more Erpheronian character (as evident by the absence of rockmoss), he still favours the solid and familiar patterns of the clans, especially his own.

Felsid has a fondness for variety, especially in his dress. But there are some steadfast hallmarks to our grinning dwarf. His smith's hammer is near always slung from his belt, regardless of company and locale, and he particularly favours a pair of heavy worn and eroded, oak-hued workboots; a hand-me-down from his elder brother that he cherishes immensely.

--

Occupation: Much can be said about the Erpheronian spirit; its pride, its hunger for war, the rigidity of its law. But one must never forget the rich history of Erpheronian artistry. A master smith might take pride of place above the silvered craft of the poet in the psyche of the people, but amongst the rich and noble, with time and goldbard aplenty, the writers art still draws favour. And the patrons of Voldar are very much a bed in bloom.

Felsid practices the craft of gearmaker. He designs, manufactures and assembles machinery for his Lord Patron. Indeed, gearmaking is not a very common craft for a dwarf to have; the Thrumgolz typically have little interest in it. But Felsid has a mind like no other Thrumgolz, and since arriving in Voldar, a trained woodsmith (although he could forge a mean dagger, and knows his way around the gems of the High Fore), he has grown to love the gearmakers craft. He was trained in a workshop in Voldar, before purchasing his own with an endowment from his patron. From there he delights in the finesse of clockwerk and brazen design, and many of the noble lord of Voldar seek him out for his unique designs.

However, it must be said that gearmaking is not what defines Felsid, especially not to the common people of Voldar. While the old money of the city may have heard his name and sampled his quaint dwarven crafts, he is by no means a master gearsmith and is, for the most part, second or third choice for the discerning customer. Nor is his Lord Patron interested in the art of his abstruse craft. For Felsid's real profession and occupation is capturing the minds and imaginations of the people of Voldar; he's an author, a teller of wondrous stories. His Lord Patron delights in his works and pays him extremely handsomely for his works, and amongst the common people of Voldar he is something of a legend.



II
Soul & Spirit
"The noble pleasures of Voldar are unique, my lord.
We have the most nimble tumblers, the lustiest women and the finest cooks.
But above all, we have the Felsid, the Wordsmith of Greytunnel.
Sit and listen to his words and see if the tears do not leap from your eyes like grieving widows from yonder cliff."

--

Personality & Character: Some say child, others woodland spirit. Almost all agree that, for a dwarf, Felsid behaves very much unlike most dwarfs. One would be pressed sore to find the hidden traces of his old life, buried deep beneath the foolish grin and florid gestures. Indeed many might find him verbose and peculiar in manner, taken to eccentric habits and penchant for salutations to the unknown peasant, talkative almost to a fault. Quite unlike the gruff men burled out from the mountains to peddle wares and escape back to the gloomy shelter of their caves. But oh, if one tried hard and listened carefully to the sound of his voice when he scolds young children, or discusses the ale at a taphouse, or simply watches as he closes his eyes to the ringing of a smiths hammer, then he'd see the lost dwarf resting peacefully inside; content.

How best to describe our wayward dwarf in a few short words? Some might say it would be impossible to entrap the grandeur that is the complexity of his heart; some might scoff and wave their hand, dismissing him as a stone with many facets, but nonetheless a stone, easily grasped in one hand and left untended upon a shelf. Like a slow burning wick, some say. They've met men of the Thrumgolz, and seen their flinted gaze. Like stone, they might mutter, deep in their cups. As if Foiros had scorned them of any spark and left them cold. But listen now, go to any dock in Vardynn, hear the clamour of sailors in any port from Accam to Ciosa. Ask them, fellow, what of those Pickhands, those boorish dwarves, what say you of them? And sure as the night is cold, that weatherworn sailor will laugh aloud and yell, a pint to any such man who could drop a Pick' and live ta tell the tale! You'd likely find yourself noticing how the sailor first checks to see if any of said men of short stature where within earshot. So what can one say of Felsid? Well, suffice to say living above his heart is a voice of cheerful brass and earthy grumble. But locked beneath it is the booming thunder and the ringing of Urtengor's hammer. A traveller he may seem, a dwarf he will always be.

--

Facts, Features & Flaws: Ask any child and they'll tell you that the silly old man who lives in Greytunnel would tell you a story so good, you'd dream it real that same night. Any adult will say he has far too much dust and lint bouncing around between his ears. But they'll also neglect to mention their copy of his book of tales by their bedstead, or take any notice of the songs the children sing, drawn straight from his pages. So let us consider it a strength, then: a tongue like the warbling Le'Tan bird, fuelled by a tapestry of imagination of such length and colour, the locals go as far as to name him their treasure.

His hands are blunt and rough, yet steadfast like old iron. He's a gearmaker, after all. An intimate knowledge of clockwerk and woodcraft; an artisan to the end. The art is strong within him, and he is quick to master anything that employs such a delicate touch.

But what dwarf is complete without mention of their anger? In the stories one may laugh and jest about the foolish dwarf who boils with rage and ends up in some hellish pickle because of it, but for the souls cursed with such a vitriolic beast inside of them the story ends short. Of course, Felsid is unlikely to be stuck in the lair of some troll or a warg den because of his temper, but it is not unheard of for a night to end in cuts and bruises as prideful men test their knuckles against the scathing mouth of a tipsy dwarf, only to be dragged out by the ankle by the same, now blackguarded fellow.

However, there is also a weakness to Felsid's soul which causes him much more harm than simply an indecent penchant for anger. A transience, an air of shimmering that makes him seem distant. Many men have spoken and jested with Felsid, many more know his name besides. Precious few have heard his own tale, and fewer still have met his heart, read the words written beneath the strata of his mirth. Let us consider it a weakness of the lost, wandering Felsid, wayward dwarf in the land of men, layering gears upon springs in the quiet of his shop and penning tales of men from far away before a cheerful hearth. For fame and wealth may appease the likes of any dwarf and man and elf alike, but for Felsid the happiness he seeks is simply unknown, and so unprocurable.


III
A Tale of Origin
"Upon the back of a psyrpent he came, dead o' the night.
Shroud all in mist. Aye, at least, that's wa' I heard."

--

Chapter I - Over the Hills

// Felsid during his home and family life, introducing his family, up until he decides to skip the cave and head north, to Voldar, hot on the trails of a travelling bard who has captured his imagination //

Ysaril; a dark morning lit by a weakling sun. A cold, frosted Tahunden. In the forge above rang the beat of hammer and anvil as the smiths took to work. In the forests below snarling saws bit into bark and beam. Beyond the slabstone entrance of the DenArilerons warren the air was crisp and chill, but inside the deep earth of the High Fores, the mountains upon which they laid their domain, it was warm with life and comfort. Their stone walls kept the cavernous rooms ambient all year long, no matter how fierce the snap outside grew. Like a womb beneath the eart, inside those tunnels they were safe, and where they called home. Inside. Where Felsid, son of Akhen the Grim and Hulum, brother to Lekuuket the prodigy woodsmith, with rough-hewn hands and bristling infant beard, called home.

Let us consider this morning a day of yesteryear; a day gone by and now shelved as a cobwebbed memory in the myriad halls of Felsid's mind. For it is indeed history, but nonetheless a history worth exploring. It was on this day that a lean, grey old fellow took shelter from a storm that had come howling in from the sea to batter the Fores. As distrusting as the grim-faced Thrumgolz may be, they are not without a certain compassion, especially to one wayward beneath the sun, without the good earth above and below their being. And so Garret Drumlin, a man of mottled background, broke bread beneath the mountains that night, before the hearth of the DenArilerons patriarch, Folthenvar of KarizRotum (the KarizRotum being the name of their homely peak, close to the northern end of the range). Folthenvar was a kind dwarf, although stern, and weary of all humans. Garret, on the other hand was a swirling gust of one part exuberance, two parts mystery. He claimed to be a bard, although he travelled without a lyre. Instead he wielded a simple whistle, a mushroom whistle as he called it, from which he fingered delightful tunes, much to the merriment of the children. The ancient Folthenvar had given him leave of the primary rooms, close to the entrance, and far from the secrets of their caves.

He might not admit it if you asked him now, but Felsid still remembers that day. The detail of the memory might be hazy, or entirely lost, but never will he forget the way the rain dripped from the old man's dusty beard as he gathered himself besides the hearth, children beneath his feet like mice. Felsid, aloof from the young ones, near a man himself, kept his distance. In the room they called the Greetingshearth, the welcoming flame to all who who passed beyond the doors and through the deliberately complex meander of tunnels he sat amongst the few who where curious enough to greet him. Folthenvar sat deep in his stone chair, raised at the back of the cavern beyond the hearth, enshrouded in shadows. At his side was his own son, the scion Yller, a firebrand of a boy of Felsid's age. Now, all who knew the Thrumgolz knew them to be a suspicious and guarded lot; they rarely traded beyond the foothills of their own peaks. Yet this stranger sat beneath their roof, eating their lichen bread and entertaining their children. From his tenebrous perch the patriarch stared through slitted eyes at the man, pondering the peculiarity of it all. From his stool beneath the head young Yller glared openly at the man, chewing on his budding whiskers and thumbing his nose in chagrin. He saw little to trust in such a man. But what of Felsid, you ask? In a recess beside a wall, cross-legged upon the floor sat Felsid, eyes wide and thoughts racing. He had so much to ask of this man, so much that had never crossed his mind before. Just yesterday he had been etching a filigree pattern into the side-panel of a red birch armoire, mind cast long into the pools of craftsmanship and brooding and how he would ask Mayen to be his upon his Choosing...

Five days Garret stayed, waiting out the storm. The night before the clouds saw fit to part, the skies had turned a murderous black and thorns of lightning split the night for many hours. The wrath of the great Grothar himself tore across the land, up against their iron-wrought peaks; many men began to grumble, to seethe. Outside, the trees where being flattened and the squat wooden outposts of the Thrumgolz woodsmen were at the mercy of the winds. The rivers swelled and washed away their banks. Abandoned tools, felled logs and workshops alike were gone the following morning. Many of their deepest caves began to flood and the damp rose where it was ill wanted. The grizzled elder dwarves blamed Garret, claimed they had angered Thrum-Baroll by letting a human not of Helcrani blood stay so beside their hearth. Others dismissed their words as foolish hearsay. At their words Folthenvar muttered, but his voice was low, and his conviction seemed weak. For even he glared at the old man when he sauntered across the hearth with a gaggle of young children at his tow. Blood was simmering, and Felsid could feel it.

Beside the hearth he sat, hands wrapped around the curvaceous weight of a knot of red birch. Light tools lay arranged around him. A mug of spiced ale bore a wispy head of steam besides his knee. Next to him was Mayen...no, the Tharian tongue cannot do her justice. As Felsid would refrain from attempted to enslave such a creature with his own words, I shall accede him the same duty. Aye, Mayen sat beside him, her eyes drifting left to right in slow circles across the pages of a book. Folthenvar gloomed from his throne and Yller was stalking dangerously, eyes sunken beneath heavy brows, ears full with the whispered words of his lackeys. From his inky refuge he emerged, flanked by a cadre of younger dwarfs in thrall to his father. He addressed the human, who had been softly playing his mushroom whistle. Garret looked up, puzzled. Yller spoke quietly, calmly; many had not noticed the addressal. Felsid could not quite make out what was being said. It was only when Folthenvar slowly roused himself from the stone pedestal, blanket falling to his ankles. A cankerous roar emerged from his lips, castigating Yller for his rudeness and audacity. Helcrani be damned, any guest beneath our roof is to be treated as such. Yller had the decency to flush at the unexpected outburst. He countered his father's foul temper with cold audience and temperate riposte. By this time all had perked up and turned towards the central hearth. Felsid was stunned. He had never heard such strong words come from either man's mouth. Stranger still was the apparent swapping of roles; never before had he seen the Folthenvar so enraged and lacking composure. Quivering. Yller, on the other hand, a dwarf known for his firebrand mouth and brusque manner, remained steadfast and monolithic. Eventually Garret spoke up. The young dwarf is right, alas, he said. He had overstayed his welcome, and even he could see the lichen turning sour in their broth. Yller frowned at the human, pausing the argument to listen to hear him speak. Folthenvar seemed to compound his himself, drawing shut the rabid doors accidentally loosed. The air was heavy with dust. Folthenvar glared at his son and his squirming peers. He implored the human to stay. He'd not have it be said that Folthenvar of KarizRotrum had shown his guest such discourtesy. No no, Garret insisted. From Felsid's persective, seated cross-legged some five peds from the scrap, Garret almost seemed relieved to be subject to Yller's vitriol. Eventually their patriarch caved. He did, however, insist that, should he be leaving, that he not leave alone, at least until the foothills below. An honor guard, in essence. Hesitantly Garret obliged, yet Yller's face was contorted in disdain. Folthenvar, smoldering like a volcano of ill temperament, cast his gaze around. Aye, a dwarf shall accompany you to the first sentinels trunks.

To the unwelcome surprise of all, Felsid leapt to his feet. His spiced lichen brew, now cold, spilled across the floor. Mayen yelped at his sudden movement. I will go, he said. His patriarch scoffed; his patriarch's son scoffed. Mayen looked aghast at his decision. Aye, chuckled the human. I'll take him.
Chapter II - Tangles & Brambles

// Poor Felsid, a young dwarf lost beyond the caves, has lost track of his bard and is stumbling through the eerie woods of Thaelon; at his wits end he doesn't know where to turn, unless the guiding light he spies before him, between the trees yonder, might be of any aid... //

Grothar's loathsome beard, boy. Garret kicked a mushroom

Chapter III - The Greatness of Men

// Having bid farewell to his companions, Felsid enters Voldar a new dwarf; hardened but light hearted and full of crackling life. And now he has reached Voldar; will his bard be here, finally ready to spill his secrets? Or will Voldar consume Felsid, and show him how cruel the lands of Men can be... //


IV
Mists & Miscellany
"Internally sprung, aye it is.
A masterpiece, befit the finest of hands. Yours, perhaps, m'lady?
Truly a timepiece befit one of such slender beauty..."

--

Felsid's Favourite Tidbits of Wisdom: "Ask a dwarf which way is up and he'll point at the dirt; ask him where home is and he'll yelp and reach for the nearest tankard; ask him to mount a saddle and you'll receive and snort and a thump for your troubles. What's there to say about dwarfs? Well, first and foremost, never tug on their beards!"

"The premier of Voldar is like the bandit's leaf. Strong and fat he grows upon the wilted stem of the host, sucking from it the life which it desperately scours from the earth. And so they labour, beneath the sun, entwined. But never forget, my friends; that sold, honest stalk of corn is the only thing keeping the bandit alive. Without it he withers and lies parched and brittle. Always remember that fact when the the bandit comes knocking on your door. Without the corn to feed, the weed is but a dream."

"Why, dearest Maxine, do you feel such encumbrance by your esoterica so as to confine yourself to the sundial? You know full well what I do in my shop; metronomes that tick in time with the beat of Eyasha's heart, sending your own to rest. Timepieces as small as a button, to be kept beneath a cloud until its time is due. I wish not to offend my darling but the philistines grip has strangled all reason from your mind."

An Eccentric Dwarf's Bibliography:
  • The Grand Metaphysics: Transcendence of the Aviaría - a treatise regarding the Nature of Phenomena and the Divinity of the Twelve.
  • On Elements - Cosmogeny in with Regard to Elven Necessity.
  • The Gearspring Handbook - A craftsman's guide to clockwork and internal spring mechanisms, structured qua the philosophy of Magnus En Nemo.








« Last Edit: February 15, 2016, 06:36:42 PM by Felsid Greytunnel » Logged
Felsid Greytunnel
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« Reply #1 on: February 08, 2016, 07:15:38 PM »

Incidentally, I think I overuse the word aye when writing dwarven dialogue, and I curse all occidental fantasy for whitewashing dwarfs as Scottish. 
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karagen143
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« Reply #2 on: July 04, 2018, 03:49:39 PM »

I do not understand why I read it.
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