Post by Morg Stormhammer on Nov 14, 2003 8:47:41 GMT -5
Morgrim Stormhammer, Morg to those who know him best, has lived a full life in his scant 80 years as a dweller of Middle-Earth. His life started out in hardship, with his mother being slain by a band of Orcs at a very young age. His father, his uncle and a few distant relatives, they managed to drive off the foul beasts without further loss of life but the hole left in the small clan was undoubtedly noticeable in the years to come.
For many months after his mother's death, Morg and the rest of the Dwarfs would roam the mountains and other abodes of their distant brethren, always offering their services and assistance if ever needed. In turn, they would be shown the utmost respect…at least to their faces. In the Dwarven community, it was indeed a tragedy, as well as fuel for many jests, for a family to not have caves or some underground dwelling to call home. So, Morg and his family felt torn between thankfulness, shame and anger towards nearly all those they came in contact with. There were, of course, a few exceptions and chief of these were those Dwarf kindred who lived under or near the Lonely Mountain. Morg would ask his father, a multitude of times over the years, why most other Dwarfs would almost shun them at times but these of their people would welcome them as if long-lost family. He never received an answer at any time, which would cause Morg many years of anguish as his travels took him further, and yet closer, to the truth.
About the time Morg was to begin his training, both in the more skilled arts in stone work, metal craft and the defense of their small clan, a most unfortunate incident occurred. Morg's family was also known for their ability to brew what was, and still is mind you, considered the finest Dwarven Ale ever to be poured. Between his father and his uncle, on his father's side if it clears up anything, they had concocted a recipe for the beloved drink that hasn't changed nary a drop in 245 years. With such a reputation, there was of course, as is had by all siblings no matter what race they may be, many squabbles, fights, altercations and all-out brawls to be seen between the two brothers. The climax of the long years of playful rivalry, which is how they viewed it of course, was a dark and dreary night where no work was to be had and the clan was enjoying a much needed rest. Morg's uncle, Naugir, was fast asleep, as were most of the others. Morg's father, Mirgol, thought to impress the local Dwarfs by taking a cask or two of an especially well aged batch of their ale and sharing it amongst whomever would pull up a tankard. The small group that had gathered was well into the second cask when Naugir was awoken by the merriment, which of course caught his interest so he thought to join them. He also thought he might make an impression upon any present by taking along with him, you guessed it, those very casks Mirgol had already tapped and was sharing at that very moment. Becoming very angry at seeing the best casks of ale they had missing, Naugir stalked off to either find the culprit or drown in whatever was being served among those who were awake. As you might imagine, which I'm sure you have already, the sight of Mirgol drinking away with one cask, already empty, the last few drops laying on the floor, and the second cask being passed around before his very eyes, sent Naugir into a frenzy of Dwarven rage. Before any of those present could even comprehend what was happening, Naugir launched himself, barehanded, at Mirgol, with a murderous gleam in his eyes. Mirgol, not having a clue of what was happening, as well as being on his way to a drunken stupor, was not prepared for this attack in the least. By the time anyone was able to react, Mirgol lay dead, his head cracked open upon a rock protruding from the cave floor, Naugir standing above him. Those who witnessed this tragedy were of about the same status of coherency as Mirgol, on top of being completely dumbfounded due to what just happened, so no one was in a state of mind to detain Naugir. Once the realization of what he had just done sunk in, which did not take long at all since he hadn't had a chance to drink anything yet, Naugir ran to grab what few items he could without stopping and soon disappeared from the caves and out into the night. Of course, the ensuing commotion awoke all others who traveled with Morg and his family, including Morg. The older of the Dwarfs were told off to search for the murderer while those still too young for such activities were firmly told they would have to help with some of the more strenuous duties now that most everyone was up and about. No one thought about it, as I'm sure you might not have in such a situation, that Morg might stumble on to what had transpired during the evening. Which, as some of you may have already surmised, is exactly what happened. Some of the Dwarfs didn't know Morg nor his family very well so they made no connection between Mirgol, laying dead next to a small fire, and the young Dwarf nor to Naugir being the uncle and brother and murderer. Quickly, as things like this tend to, the basic information was on the lips of everyone within the mountain home. Morg felt many things that night, not the least of which was the pain of his mother's death relived vividly in his mind. Yet, he also felt pity of sorts for his uncle, though none ever knew this and Morg wasn't of a mind to change that. Morg wandered back towards where he had been sleeping, not even looking towards his uncle Naugir's pallet and sat there for nearly 3 hours. During which time, Naugir's trail had been picked up but it was believed he was well ahead of the search party and it would take quite some time to shorten the lead he had on them. When Morg finally came to, so to speak, he gathered up all he could of his belongings, which weren't really that many, and then walked slowly over to where his father would have been laying, asleep, if the night had turned out differently. Of Mirgol's personal effects, all Morg wanted to even look at, let alone touch, was the mighty hammer his father always kept by his side, which he called Stormhammer in the speech of Man. This he took up in his young hands and he felt his father's touch, his father's love, all that made Mirgol who he was and would always be in Morg's heart, and Morg knew it was right that he should wield this weapon. Having resolved a conflict he did not know was even there, Morg ignored any whom might stop him and headed out into the slight glow before actual dawn. Thus began his adventures in the world, traveling from place to place, seeking something he knew not yet. All he had was Stormhammer, some clothing, his training armor and enough foodstuffs to last him a week at best.
For many years, Morg would travel all throughout Middle-Earth, seeing what sights he could, talking to those he knew and making his way with what knowledge had been taught him with stone and metal. During this time, when asked his name, he would give Morgrim, as was proper, but he had taken to adding Stormhammer, for fear someone would recognize a name attached to treachery and death. Eventually, he found that even without his second name some would know him and somewhat of his story, so he dropped his name to Morg Stormhammer, in hopes that the questions and sidelong glances might end.
Also, during this time, he ran across a very old, even for a Dwarf, very distant relative who seemed to know Morg for who he really was, though Morg could not remember ever meeting this Dwarf in his entire life. Nemlara was her name and she claimed to be a cousin to an aunt of the brother to someone's mother who had lived with a nephew of Mirgol's uncle Raglar. (Yes, Dwarven families can be quite extended) Not wanting to doubt, and at the same time insult, the old Dwarf, Morg sat patiently as she told her story. Most of what was said that day need not be repeated here but most important of the details must be shared if you are to understand more of what drives Morgrim to this very day. You see, it had never been very clear, nor was discussed at all if ever, exactly from where Morg's family had descended. It's very important to Dwarfs as to how far back, and all names along the way, they can trace their lineage. So it was very surprising when Bombur's name came up during Nemlara's story. Yet, her information was incomplete due to just how distantly she was related to Morg and his father. It had been many, many years since she had last seen Mirgol, well before Morg was born, so she hadn't a real clear picture of where in the family tree fit Bombur. What she was nearly certain about was the fact that Morg was somehow directly related to one of the most famous Dwarfs in recent history, counted among Thorin and Company as heroes and much esteem. Of course, this changed Morg's outlook on life like nothing else had been able since his father's death. (having never been close with his mother, as well as being young in age, this really didn't affect his life as losing his father did) With this new information, a new purpose and a gleam in his eye once again, he set out to wander the free lands and Dwarven communities to search for all information to be had about the family between Bombur and himself. (more to come in the future as I have time to write..this will be part of the SHoA history, as will everyone's history)
For many months after his mother's death, Morg and the rest of the Dwarfs would roam the mountains and other abodes of their distant brethren, always offering their services and assistance if ever needed. In turn, they would be shown the utmost respect…at least to their faces. In the Dwarven community, it was indeed a tragedy, as well as fuel for many jests, for a family to not have caves or some underground dwelling to call home. So, Morg and his family felt torn between thankfulness, shame and anger towards nearly all those they came in contact with. There were, of course, a few exceptions and chief of these were those Dwarf kindred who lived under or near the Lonely Mountain. Morg would ask his father, a multitude of times over the years, why most other Dwarfs would almost shun them at times but these of their people would welcome them as if long-lost family. He never received an answer at any time, which would cause Morg many years of anguish as his travels took him further, and yet closer, to the truth.
About the time Morg was to begin his training, both in the more skilled arts in stone work, metal craft and the defense of their small clan, a most unfortunate incident occurred. Morg's family was also known for their ability to brew what was, and still is mind you, considered the finest Dwarven Ale ever to be poured. Between his father and his uncle, on his father's side if it clears up anything, they had concocted a recipe for the beloved drink that hasn't changed nary a drop in 245 years. With such a reputation, there was of course, as is had by all siblings no matter what race they may be, many squabbles, fights, altercations and all-out brawls to be seen between the two brothers. The climax of the long years of playful rivalry, which is how they viewed it of course, was a dark and dreary night where no work was to be had and the clan was enjoying a much needed rest. Morg's uncle, Naugir, was fast asleep, as were most of the others. Morg's father, Mirgol, thought to impress the local Dwarfs by taking a cask or two of an especially well aged batch of their ale and sharing it amongst whomever would pull up a tankard. The small group that had gathered was well into the second cask when Naugir was awoken by the merriment, which of course caught his interest so he thought to join them. He also thought he might make an impression upon any present by taking along with him, you guessed it, those very casks Mirgol had already tapped and was sharing at that very moment. Becoming very angry at seeing the best casks of ale they had missing, Naugir stalked off to either find the culprit or drown in whatever was being served among those who were awake. As you might imagine, which I'm sure you have already, the sight of Mirgol drinking away with one cask, already empty, the last few drops laying on the floor, and the second cask being passed around before his very eyes, sent Naugir into a frenzy of Dwarven rage. Before any of those present could even comprehend what was happening, Naugir launched himself, barehanded, at Mirgol, with a murderous gleam in his eyes. Mirgol, not having a clue of what was happening, as well as being on his way to a drunken stupor, was not prepared for this attack in the least. By the time anyone was able to react, Mirgol lay dead, his head cracked open upon a rock protruding from the cave floor, Naugir standing above him. Those who witnessed this tragedy were of about the same status of coherency as Mirgol, on top of being completely dumbfounded due to what just happened, so no one was in a state of mind to detain Naugir. Once the realization of what he had just done sunk in, which did not take long at all since he hadn't had a chance to drink anything yet, Naugir ran to grab what few items he could without stopping and soon disappeared from the caves and out into the night. Of course, the ensuing commotion awoke all others who traveled with Morg and his family, including Morg. The older of the Dwarfs were told off to search for the murderer while those still too young for such activities were firmly told they would have to help with some of the more strenuous duties now that most everyone was up and about. No one thought about it, as I'm sure you might not have in such a situation, that Morg might stumble on to what had transpired during the evening. Which, as some of you may have already surmised, is exactly what happened. Some of the Dwarfs didn't know Morg nor his family very well so they made no connection between Mirgol, laying dead next to a small fire, and the young Dwarf nor to Naugir being the uncle and brother and murderer. Quickly, as things like this tend to, the basic information was on the lips of everyone within the mountain home. Morg felt many things that night, not the least of which was the pain of his mother's death relived vividly in his mind. Yet, he also felt pity of sorts for his uncle, though none ever knew this and Morg wasn't of a mind to change that. Morg wandered back towards where he had been sleeping, not even looking towards his uncle Naugir's pallet and sat there for nearly 3 hours. During which time, Naugir's trail had been picked up but it was believed he was well ahead of the search party and it would take quite some time to shorten the lead he had on them. When Morg finally came to, so to speak, he gathered up all he could of his belongings, which weren't really that many, and then walked slowly over to where his father would have been laying, asleep, if the night had turned out differently. Of Mirgol's personal effects, all Morg wanted to even look at, let alone touch, was the mighty hammer his father always kept by his side, which he called Stormhammer in the speech of Man. This he took up in his young hands and he felt his father's touch, his father's love, all that made Mirgol who he was and would always be in Morg's heart, and Morg knew it was right that he should wield this weapon. Having resolved a conflict he did not know was even there, Morg ignored any whom might stop him and headed out into the slight glow before actual dawn. Thus began his adventures in the world, traveling from place to place, seeking something he knew not yet. All he had was Stormhammer, some clothing, his training armor and enough foodstuffs to last him a week at best.
For many years, Morg would travel all throughout Middle-Earth, seeing what sights he could, talking to those he knew and making his way with what knowledge had been taught him with stone and metal. During this time, when asked his name, he would give Morgrim, as was proper, but he had taken to adding Stormhammer, for fear someone would recognize a name attached to treachery and death. Eventually, he found that even without his second name some would know him and somewhat of his story, so he dropped his name to Morg Stormhammer, in hopes that the questions and sidelong glances might end.
Also, during this time, he ran across a very old, even for a Dwarf, very distant relative who seemed to know Morg for who he really was, though Morg could not remember ever meeting this Dwarf in his entire life. Nemlara was her name and she claimed to be a cousin to an aunt of the brother to someone's mother who had lived with a nephew of Mirgol's uncle Raglar. (Yes, Dwarven families can be quite extended) Not wanting to doubt, and at the same time insult, the old Dwarf, Morg sat patiently as she told her story. Most of what was said that day need not be repeated here but most important of the details must be shared if you are to understand more of what drives Morgrim to this very day. You see, it had never been very clear, nor was discussed at all if ever, exactly from where Morg's family had descended. It's very important to Dwarfs as to how far back, and all names along the way, they can trace their lineage. So it was very surprising when Bombur's name came up during Nemlara's story. Yet, her information was incomplete due to just how distantly she was related to Morg and his father. It had been many, many years since she had last seen Mirgol, well before Morg was born, so she hadn't a real clear picture of where in the family tree fit Bombur. What she was nearly certain about was the fact that Morg was somehow directly related to one of the most famous Dwarfs in recent history, counted among Thorin and Company as heroes and much esteem. Of course, this changed Morg's outlook on life like nothing else had been able since his father's death. (having never been close with his mother, as well as being young in age, this really didn't affect his life as losing his father did) With this new information, a new purpose and a gleam in his eye once again, he set out to wander the free lands and Dwarven communities to search for all information to be had about the family between Bombur and himself. (more to come in the future as I have time to write..this will be part of the SHoA history, as will everyone's history)
