#stiffbeards

@tolkiengenweek Finale // Places ● Environment

⁷⁄₇ of dwarven clans » Stiffbeards

Masterlist

Longbeards (Durin's Folk): Durin´s, the eldest of the Dwarven fathers, folk are one of the longest lived dwarf clanes and can, they live long even for other dwarves. Their capital is Khazad-dûm, later known as Moria, located in the Misty Mountains. They speak Sindarin (common) and Khuzdul. Longbeards can be around 250 years, and presumably have longer beards than the rest of the Dwarves. The Longbeards woke in Gundabad.

The Seven Houses of the Khazad by Artigas

Gaelan uncovered the scrap of parchment and took a peek. Immediately, the dwarf’s hand slammed down on top of his, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. “No!” he hissed defiantly. “You remember!” Gaelan sighed and shook his head. “I don’t,” he moaned. The formation of the word was on the tip of his tongue, like a caged bird waiting to be freed. He vaguely knew that the root of it was A-S-M — the root for welcome in the Ugzarakian dialect of Khuzdul, which the dwarves of that region called kishki. He squinted hard into his friend’s face, willing there to be a hint. There wasn’t any. As close as they were, Vadlik was an unrelenting teacher. “Asklum? Aslum?” he tried. A smile twitched the corner of Vadlik’s mouth. “As-klum,” he corrected. “Klum,” he repeated, putting emphasis on the last syllable of the word. “Asklum,” Gaelan diligently said, now with the stress in the right place. “Gathering.” Gaelan massaged his temples, breathing in deeply. They had been at it for an hour and already his brain felt was though it had been pressed through a laundry mangle. “We stop,” Vadlik said gently. “You better, maybe.” Gaelan smiled. ‘Maybe’ was a word that Vadlik had only just learned, and he had grown accustomed to saying it as often as he could to practise it. Are you hungry? Maybe. How are you feeling? Good, maybe. Am I at least getting better at kishki? Maybe yes, maybe no. “And you’re maybe getting better at Westron,” Gaelan replied in standard Khuzdul, the kind that every dwarf knew and that was spoken by those of the Western and Central Houses of dwarves. Getting even mildly conversational in it had been a task, but it was nowhere near as mind-bending as its north-eastern dialect. Vadlik grinned proudly and puffed up his chest, tucking a heavy Stiffbeard braid behind his ear. “I think, yes. I practise by market. Dalishmen talk to me — no… no many Stiffbeards here,” he said, his broad smile revealing a row of capped silver teeth. His Westron was still halting and uncertain, but Vadlik had soon swiftly overcome his embarrassment at not understanding the Men living around Erebor by settling into the common Stiffbeard mindset of simply not caring about what anyone thought. If the race of dwarves were a proud and resilient people, those who lived in the small enclave of Ugzarak were the toughest of the whole, hardy bunch.

—

It was here that he would die. Already, Gaelan could feel himself slipping slowly into sleep, the ice-encrusted cave floor feeling like the softest, warmest feather pillow. He was far too hot and he cast the covers from his body, but the covers that he cast away was the thick, fur-lined cloak covering his mail. Oh well, he didn’t need it. He was still stuffy and his skin felt like it was prickling with fire. Perhaps he should remove his mail, his gloves, his boots, his trousers? Then surely this damned heat would leave him. Through half-lidded eyes, the young soldier watched the blizzard stream down outside the cave-mouth. Numbly, he wondered how in the world it could be so warm when outside it was so cold. It was just that he’d found a good cave to tuck himself in for the night. A miracle, really.

Gaelan raised his head slightly — he had seen a figure coming towards him through the flurry of white flecks that rippled in front of his eyes like a waterfall. With a jolt of understanding, he realised that it was his commander, Beregar! Beregar! The last time he had seen him, he had been laying face-down in the snow, frozen solid. But of course he had gotten up again and found this cave, and he was leading a troop of men behind him — everyone was still alive. “Beregar!” he called out happily, too weak to raise a hand but his thin, dry lips stretched in a relieved smile. His commander’s expression was serious, and in his hand he clutched a burning torch. His furs and shining helmet were slick from snow and his wiry, black beard had frozen into solid icicles. But he was on his feet, with food and water and fire. How long had it been since he’d eaten? They’d feast here together, all of them, before making their way out of this damnable snowy wasteland.

—

Vadlik grimaced. “Like water — pazkha,” he spat. Gaelan laughed. He at least knew pazkha, which was a favourite of the snow-mammoth hunter — shit. “Then put more salt in it like you always do,” he ribbed in Westron, handing the dwarf the salt cellar and watching the Stiffbeard pour a liberal amount in. Vadlik chewed disappointedly. Gaelan knew what he was missing. The thick, nourishing muta bird broth; rich, salty, creamy and fatty, favoured by those hailing from Ushkar, the hunting outpost at the tip of the northernmost mountain, the North of Norths. It was that broth, and the hands that had made it, which had saved Gaelan’s life when every other member of his scouting party had become trapped in the network of hills and glaciers that covered the edge of the world. It had been a mission doomed for failure from the start, though Gaelan had learned to box up the anger and resentment associated with being the sole survivor. Not now, he kept telling himself. I’ll deal with it another time. Vadlik looked up, his eyes sparkling at his friend. Somehow, the Stiffbeard always knew when one of his moods was descending on him. “What is… soup? Saying in kishki,” the hunter challenged him. Gaelan’s kishki vocabulary consisted mainly of food-based words, since most of their study sessions had been accompanied by meals. “Kalak,” Gaelan replied. Everything in Khuzdul, in kishki, could be linked back to something else. Kalak was related to their word for fire, for nourishment, for life.

—

in their halls of stone || Chapter 5: Amethyst

part of Heirlooms

A history of the Dwarven-Rings: from their gifting to the Kings of the Seven Clans, through the bellies of dragons, and into Sauron's grasp. Chapter 5: The Amethyst Ring of the Stiffbeards.

For @khazadweek​ Day 5: Stiffbeards! ft. old friendships, new friendships, and dastardly dragons.

START AT CHAPTER 1!

chapter 5 notes:

Rating: M | Major Character Death | Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationships: Sauron & Audun III (OC), Gudbrand II (OC) & Rûvek III (OC), Aiwareiks (OC) & Hrímil Frostheart Characters: Audun III (OC; Stiffbeard King), Sauron, Sindri VI (OC; Stiffbeard King), Gudbrand II (OC; Stiffebard King), Rûvek III (OC; Ironfist King), Hrímil Frostheart (LOTRO), Aiwareiks (Nazgûl OC) Word count: 2k

“Since they were to come in the days of the power of Melkor, Aulë made the dwarves strong to endure. Therefore they are stone-hard, stubborn, fast in friendship and in enmity, and they suffer toil and hunger and hurt of body more hardily than all other speaking peoples; and they live long, far beyond the span of Men, yet not forever.” 

― The Silmarillion, “Of Aulë and Yavanna”

(Wow... so this has been a work in progress for coming up to a year now ^^;)

I was inspired by Silver_Pup’s fic The Long Road Home to draw my own interpretation of the 7 dwarf fathers. The names and base descriptions are courtesy of Silver_Pup. I had so much fun designing these dwarves and imagine what the contributed to Dwarven society. 

Alviss and Dellingr were the founders of the Broadbeams and Firebeards and awoke in the Blue Mountains.

Hermóðr and Forseti founded the Ironfists and Stiffbeards and awoke together. 

Meili and Vor were founders of the Stonefoots and Blacklocks and awoke together.