*Gromm's Journal is a large book which contains his thoughts, feelings and log of adventures. It is a severely large book that has been crafted of dyed red leather, gold and iron to seal the paper book securely. It is something he keeps to himself and tells none about.*
[[ NO POSTING ON THIS THREAD: IT IS A JOURNAL, NOT A CHARACTER PROFILE ]]
Current status:In Gromm's Possession. Pages written:677. Contains knowledge of Gromm's past adventures since before the Second Exodus.
Wānn ae dur meir bārruz, wy do ae sarud? Ae dur Korog's wurk, bud feir cur thýv famuz et loruz a mei. Alta whir meir loyar mour. Dwargar mearir alta ta meir, bud ae lénîd. Dur zum zee Korog tunr? Dimm ae thynka hárn et nae zee truzuz? Ae vrâw ta stara Korog wurk, locun Dwargar, magh unco hearth! Fûr a Thraall et Tahkul-Rimtar mour ta dárud, bud ae zûll bárruz fer unzur horud vada! Dey dur nae! Bud ae dur! Dimm ha zee meir fer wutt hár comm ta clud?
Horgaahn is a difficult language to write. My ancient tongue lacks words that Common invented. My kin created wonders, beautiful creations that would have took eons to destroy. We were so confident in ourselves that we had never thought to even make our own language better. We've no words for 'future' or 'past.' No future thoughts, no history to speak. Now Korog has given his blessings to a Dwarf that promised aid, but never came through. Now Korog demands we make something better then everyone else in Altera-- and we are trying, so very hard, to make something fantastic and grand...
But as I plan, as I write laws, as I speak to foreigners about giving us food in exchange for Dwarven metals and stone-- I cannot help but feel isolated in thoughts that the Gods do not care for our struggles, that Korog rewards a single Dwarf in a lonely hall rather then the lost children that live among other races, waiting for a khorug- a prophet- a babin- a friend- to lead them!
But I am not a leader. Dwarven custom states that leaders are chosen by the Dwarves, not self-imposed or awarded to a victor in a duel. Dwarven Kings are chosen by Dwarves, because they represent Dwarves.
We have nothing to represent. Nothing to show for ourselves. That is why I do what I do-- a mortal with a few friends, one old sailor Human and one cynical woodcarver-- to craft a city worthy of Korog. Dwarves, old and young, flock to our call. My call.
Bud ae nay khárûz. I am not a King. I am not a prophet. I am a single Dwarf that lost his way and returned to do what I think is right. Everyone I meet speaks of the Gods...
Chosen of Jax the King Cymic of Sangria, Chosen of Ignis the de Courtnay, doing Rahas's work the Duke Ursae of Slyannen, doing Skraag's work Dum'ni and Syviil--- But am I doing Korog's work? Does he see what we are doing? We are giving our kin a home! We are making a hearth where we can craft, drink, sing and shag! We are making a city greater then Thraall and greater then Tahkul-Rimtar!
Of course he see's! Of course he cares! But he knows I can make it! He knows Kublai can do it! And Borgrus! And Lemarc! He knows that we are building Khárûz-Korum for Dwarves, his children, and he knows we do not need his bloody blessing to do so! We are DOING Korog's work!
And I care not if Korog has given that zealous lad Thôrdil his boon as his own chosen, for there were no other Dwarves rising to meet his forge. Now there is. And Korog knows of his righteous mountain for his children. He will not waste his time giving that lonely lad in his lonely hall 'boons.'
Korog created Dwarves. He is within us. And he knows us. He knows what I write, what I craft and what I build with the others. He knows I am a mortal that is doing everything I can for my kin after losing everything I ever had. I wonder what Jeroxia would say if he saw me today.... Probably tell me I shrunk. I still wonder what Scoot would have looked like grown up. But these are things I will never know, for they are dead and I yet live. Such is the curse of long, long life..
Blessday, 12th of Floodlock, PC 2293: (( blargtheawesome - Tagged because I think you would appreciate our RP had long lasting effects on Gromm ))
I travel, travel and travel. The more of the Eastern Continent I see, the more I begin to feel at ease with this land. It is similar to the Northern Kingdoms I once knew, but somehow, always reminds you of the suffering you went through.
I visit leaders for Khárûz Kublai, the elected King of the Dwarves and meir babin. He trusts me to "do politics" for him and return to him to sign documents. He isn't incapable. In fact, I swore myself to him and was the first Dwarf to vote for him before all others. Perhaps I trust him more then I would like to admit.
The more I see these leaders, the more I feel peace. They do not seem to struggle with war, nor famine- none seem to struggle with their occupations as leaders. It seems the only true struggle across the lands is Religion-- mostly bought on by ignorance of the mortals around me, to which they swear themselves to a single God. By doing so, they set themselves a purpose. Sometimes, these singular worshipers receive blessings-- and then use these blessings upon others, harmfully.
Maceo de Courtnay seems to be one of the worst, from what I hear. His companions attack other worshipers across Altera in the name of their sole God, Ignis. It's unfortunate that Harateth was reborn as a self-loving Goddess. Skraag worshipers dig up graves all across Altera- and seem to be segregated into three different cults. The Guardians of Immortality and an un-named group lead by Syviil and Iskavander seem moral- thus they are my friends. But the third? Deluded.
Even the Earl of Stoltfar whom I recently met uses his gift from Theodra to hunt The Rangers.
In some ways, it amuses me. Mostly, however, it saddens me.
I tried to find solace in my lack of faith to Korog after my creator failed to choose a Khárûz. I did not find fellowship like my kin do. Recently I attempted to worship Silas, but my faith fails as I question myself in disappointment every-time I leave an offering to Silas' shrine.
The Gods do not hear me like they hear these fools surrounding me. Thus, I tried to understand the ideology of heretics. Alison Kane did not provide me with the answers I wished, as her lack of faith was simply because the Gods had no part to play in her life. Her devilish personality and abusive magic intrigues me- but I will find no answers with her.
Instead, I found answers whilst on my politically dangerous mission to the Court of Witch King Nwalme. He is a bizarre, eccentric man. I do not feel as if I am looking at the man I am speaking to, however... simply a mirage of some kind. He is unlike any other man I have met.
He and a physician, Josef, gave me comfort as I explained my religious plight to them. Their own respect for the Gods- but lack of faith in them- gave me inspiration of how to treat the Gods and worshipers. While not liking them fully nor following a God myself, I should respect them.
Of course, the Witch King and his adviser are both Mages of some degree. Their powers of casting spells is beyond my own understanding and, from their powers, they find skill in their heresy. I doubt they would teach me these powers.
There is peace in Altera.
Yet my mind continues to war against forgotten foes. Durrzus alta.
Thir eta da sturr a meir tunr. Nae az lénîd az ae thynka. This is the stop ([end]) of my path. Not as lonely as I thought.
An Elf, daughter of the Witch King, came all the way to Khárûz Korum to speak to me recently. Her eyes filled with curious ambition and her words were nothing but questions, questions, questions...
Craving to learn, she inspired me to write my final entry into this journal. She knew not that I was dying, of course- which did not surprise me. Her visit was unexpected and I do have hope for future scholars beyond my existence.
As for warriors? Perhaps not. Too many zealots. There are good people across Altera that I believe would continue making fantastic history for the next generations to witness, but it is mixed in outdated political welfare and religious arrogance. It is a good time to die, I've come to accept- as I am writing balanced on the tip of a new age. In my bones, I feel the Realm changing around me. And I do not enjoy change.
What am I dying of?
Some form of heart illness. It isn't beating as it should. I suspect Corruption has something to do with it, but that may be my proud paranoia. Kublai has already built a tomb for me in the center of the new Khárûz Korum Library. He gives me too much credit, I believe. I hope he reigns long and does not do anything foolish.
There is nothing more to write. I am content. And I have lived a good life. Perhaps this journal will be buried with me.