#longbeards

Sorry for being late. In return, dwarf lesbians and an Eastern dwarf quickly gets over some preconceptions of the Elder Folk.

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“Y’ can’t get a hardier folk than khazâd from the Iron Hills,” belched Tagrar impressively. “Long have we defended the north from many foes. Packs of goblins, wargs, wyrms—” “Except,” retorted Firdri, “there aren’t wyrms in the Grey Mountains no more, and none would venture as south as the Iron Hills.” The dwarf of Ered Luin’s teeth were bared, glinting gold at the edges of his mouth where the two lower canines had been punched out in a fight years ago. Tagrar fixed Firdri with one menacing eye. “I’ve seen one,” he said, drawing a meaty hand over his lips and leaning forwards to face his adversary, “years ago, when we were tracking down a group of marauding, renegade northmen pillagers, and they led us into a crevasse where the earth grew hot, and rumbled with the sound of a—” “Of some kind of natural geyser, no doubt,” snapped Firdri. He clenched the mug of beer in his hand so tightly that Zâda could have sworn she heard the metal fixtures of the handle crack.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between the two dwarves as though she was watching a game of takrak, or an arm-wrestling match, or an axe-throwing bout. Truthfully, she would have rather watched them just punch each other until their faces resembled mashed potatoes — at least their incessant boasting would be over then and she could get some peace. With the practised patience of the middle child of seven dwarves, she tuned out the griping from her right and stared around the tavern. ‘Tavern’ was a strong word — it was a patched-up watering hole. Smaug had rampaged through much of Erebor and there was practically no corner unscathed from fiery breath or whipping, lash-like tail that had tumbled stone. Zâda had already been on her way to Laketown when she had seen the pines caught alight, smouldering like candle-stubs on the far-away mountainside. The battle had been over when her wagon-train had reached the outskirts of the dwarf-held lands, though many of her party who had set out a week ago from the banks of the Sea of Rhûn had turned and fled back as they watched the northern arm of the River Running flow red with blood — dwarf, orc, and human.

It wasn’t what she had expected, but then nothing in her life had ever gone smoothly since she had left Ghomal for the small settlement of rolling, fertile hills that surrounded Dorwinion. Once she had arrived at Erebor, she was immediately escorted inside the mountain. Jubilant shouts of liberation mixed with the tearing of beards at so many dead, and there was no room for bystanders. Every dwarf able to lift something and stand upright was put to work, and Zâda had spent much of the first week in Erebor breaking down large slabs of fallen rock and piling them into carts to be hauled away for building stone. It was back-breaking, muscle-wrenching work and Zâda hadn’t cared where she had slept, as long as she got a corner to herself. A large mustering hall down in one of the lower quarters wasn’t as badly damaged as some of the others, and it had garnered the name ‘Survivor’s Hall’. A fire had been stoked high in its middle, radiating warmth and a sense of security that swept away the lingering darkness in the corners of the hall. Tents and tarpaulin sheets had been strung up, and a makeshift encampment had steadily grown, sprawling from Survivor’s Hall to the rest of the kingdom as more and more became habitable.

This, however, was not the heady hubbub Survivor’s Hall. This watering-hole, with drunken Longbeards lying amid broken chairs and vats of vinegary ale, was the Pig’s Tooth. And it stank. “Sigin-tarâg,” Zâda muttered, watching as the shouting match continued. There were some things about the Elder Folk that mystified her Eastern sensibilities. To her, Longbeards were snobbish, rude and aloof, whereas her Blacklock folk prided themselves on generous hospitality — even to the Men of the surrounding Easterling settlements. Longbeards were quick to dismiss the skills of other dwarves, those from the other Houses. Common story went that Longbeard craftsdwarves had stolen structural ideas from Blacklock architects and copied work from their ancient halls inside Khazâd-dum without credit. Zâda didn’t quite know what to believe, but she wouldn’t put it past them. Their beards were too long. They smelled odd. They weren’t what she was used to.

She rolled her eyes as the Iron Hills warrior expounded the virtues of being bred in those sparse, cold hills; whereas the one from Ered Luin was regaling the tragedies the band who had followed the King’s dwarves into exile had encountered.

And then she saw her.

It was the first time that Zâda had seen her, because she knew she would have remembered her. With an easy gait, she strode into the tavern, looking around with piercing blue eyes. A battered Iron Hills helmet, now jerry-rigged into a mining cap, swung from one hand, and the other balanced an pick across her broad, scarred shoulders. She was grimy and her shirt was more hole than cloth. And she was mesmerising.

Zâda inhaled sharply — she had forgotten to breathe for what felt like several minutes, and stars popped in front of her eyes and her lips tingled. The worker slung down her pick and helmet with a clatter and slid into the seat next to Zâda. The other dwarves had moved off to continue their quarrel outside. “Were they bothering you?” The dwarf’s voice was deep and smooth, and Zâda could feel it more than she could hear it. “No. I mean, yes, in general. But not personally,” she said quickly. The dwarf grimaced apologetically and puffed her chest out in defiance. “Not all Longbeards are as uncouth as those louts. There are some of us who know how to behave ourselves in front of guests from other Halls.” She stroked a finger through her bushy auburn moustache — Zâda noticed how meticulously her long brown hair and beard were kept, well oiled and neatly plaited through with glimmering green and blue beads, even though she was in need of a wash. The dwarf pressed a fist to her chest and rose to her feet, bowing low, her beard brushing her knees. “Igdi, child of Umnir, of the Iron Hills at your service. Don’t judge the Hills by Tagrar’s display,” she said with a wink. “Zâda, daughter of Khafun, at your’s and your family’s. And no — I wouldn’t!” she said. Her lips seemed to be running on without her, and she also appeared to have less air in her lungs than she would have liked. There was something about the dwarf’s quiet confidence and genuine smile that spread from their lips to their eyes which made her forget where she was — in a foreign land, far from home, in a mountain that had been the home of a dragon.

Continued from Appendix A. This section will contain information on Longbeards outside the Line of Durin, the Firebeards, the Broadbeams, the Ironfists, the Stiffbeards, the Blacklocks, the Stonefoots, and the Petty-dwarves.

The Longbeard forces marching towards Azanulbizar included dwarves as young as 16. They were children forced into a reality they could not fully comprehend. The toys they once held in their hands had been replaced with swords, shields, and axes.

The Seven Houses of the Khazad by Artigas