A Land Far Away

It is difficult to focus...

Prayers to Moradin the All-Father are straightforward, and generally rather calming. Droning praises for what He has done for the Dwarves in general, and specific Dwarves in particular. But today, Goinar's mind kept wandering away from his chanted rites. So much had happened. So much was still happening.
The Low Road, a remnant of ancient Delzoun, still needs cleansing. While it's unlikely the glory of that old Dwarven nation will be restored - certainly not in a single Dwarf's lifetime - reopening the underground passages to travel and trade will benefit all connected to it. But this will require dealing with the many, many monstrous spiders. And the giant clawed bug-people with their haunting stares. And now with the Duergar, the treacherous Grey Dwarves. Enemies to all who dwell underground. No doubt they have outposts nearby, just waiting while their forces build up to...

It is difficult to focus...

Like a runaway minecart suddenly derailing, this train of thought was stopped in its tracks by Goinar. Those flat-headed Greys will have to be dealt with by an army, not by two warriors alone. No matter how well Aglar and he had performed (all praises for that should go to the Soul Forger of course), they must not take on the Duergar. His majesty king Warcrown - may the Dwarffather protect him and his realm - will have to be informed and then his war council can deal with... "this matter". Or maybe Mythral Hall could sent their soldiers. But the guards they have posted here and there seem to be under strict orders not to speak. The roads to their kingdom are even kept a secret. Which means more of the Low road needs to be mapped out. Or an overland route will need to be scouted. Felbarr's libraries might hold old maps...

It is difficult to focus...

Goinar continues his prayers and praises to Moradin, even as his mind darts all over the Silver Marches. A noble ideal, this land of Luruar. It will allow the Dwarven people to share their wisdom and the fruits of their labours with the other races and peoples. Even though some might not see it like that. Like Elves that insult and offend envoys of Citadel Felbarr even while knowing they'll need Dwarven ingenuity to train their water-sunken tower. And then they'll need permission to search in Dwarven lands for their third "Stone of Fire", or somesuch. Even while their woods are still beset by "tainted" Treefolk. Which will need to be dealt with if overland trade is to flourish again. The Silverymoon rulers aren't making much progress with their road or ferry anyway. They can't even keep the streets of their own "Gem" clean of rats...

It is difficult to focus...

Goinar rises to his feet. The All-Father has made him a warrior, not a thinker; and not a priest either. His actions will have to be his prayers, praises sung with the swinging of a warhammer. Against rats. And Treefolk. And Duergar, and spiders and monsters and Orcs and...

It is difficult to focus...

A Dwarf stares morosely at his shield, propped up against the wall. The depiction of a hammer and anvil should work well as a focus for his prayers, but no chants are coming. No chants, and no prayers. Only dark thoughts.

What am I even doing here?

He looked around, at the walls of Olostin's Hold. Ugly stones, poorly stacked. A Human hold, and next to an Elven forest. So far from the Rift. So far from home. A home he had to leave, a lifetime ago. Too crowded, too many Dwarves after the All-Father's "Thunder Blessing". A blessing that caused good Dwarves to have to leave their ancestral homes, and scatter far and wide. A blessing that had driven him further north than he could even have known was possible. To snow, and ice and cold. A blessing...

What am I even doing here?

This wasn't the Rift. And this wasn't Citadel Felbarr either. Felbarr, his adopted home. Where he had fought and bled to reopen the Low Road, to reawaken the glory of old Delzoun. Delzoun, the ancient Northkingdom of the Dwarves. A proud dream, shared with few others. But none of the Dwarven strongholds wants Delzoun. The Hall wishes to remain hidden. Sundabar is now a regular city, with trade aboveground. And Felbarr itself squabbles with the other realms of the Confederation of Luruar, arguing over petty slights. There will be no Dwarven glory of old. All the efforts, all the sweat and pain and blood was for naught.

What am I even doing here?

The Dwarf shivered for a moment, telling himself the chill was coming from a draft. It wasn't, but the lie is better. Better than acknowledging the cold inside. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here at all. Not in Felbarr, not in Olostin. He should be in Dwarfhome, among the Gods and the honoured dead. He had been dead. And had acted honourably. Why had he been ousted from The Dwarffather's presence? Or what if he had never even been among the Morndinsamman? Why couldn't he remember it?

What am I even doing here?

Brought back. Brought back by one priest, on the behest of another, to be sent to Olostin's Hold. To be an advance guard against incursions in actual Dwarven lands. To appease oaths and treaties to come to the aid of the other races of the North. To avenge slights against Dwaven pride. To be the little bird in a mine. Brought back, to be expendable again.

What am I even doing here?

Passed on from one to another, as if he was an unwashed sellsword. An irrelevant Dwarf, good for giving and taking a few blows in a fight. From Felbarr's priests to Olostin's lord to a band of adventurers. "Adventurers", bah! So now here a once proud Dwarf stands. "Blessed" by his God. "Representing" his people. An "emissary" of his king. A once proud, righteous, devout Dwarf. Once righteous, but who now freed a traitor and helped it murder it's own liege and court and people. Once a Dwarf, but now pleading with Faeries at the behest of Humans. Once proud, but now mocked as a dancing fool. And once devout, but now not even able to say a simple prayer.

What am I, and what am I even doing here?