IC Post of the Month (ARCHIVE)

[The Frenchman]

The stooped dwarf scurried away from the rain and into the Greyflood, taking his place in an empty corner. He stared round at the room full of men and groaned. Tharbad was getting tedious. He'd tried fishing, but that was boring without anyone to talk to, and crafting at Lagnar's was fine, but he did not want to impose himself too often. He grinned suddenly, if there was no one interesting to talk to he could perhaps... yes... so much going on in the world and he needed answers. He pulled a handful of parchement from his knapsack, borrowed a quill and ink, and set to writing by candlelight, forgetting even his ale in his excitement.

To Rakhn Bloodbeard
Erebor

Dearest Kinsman,

The months have passed slowly since we last met, and the nights grow long and cold. I hope your travels have been all you wished for. I am looking forwards to hearing your tales of the Lonely Mountain. Please enlighten me, I have heard rumours that have concerned me greatly. My friend old Rumn on the Bree road has told me dire news from Erebor, brought to him by his kin. He told of poisoned ale and a dastadly theft. To think thieves could so easily slip into one of our great holds and commit such an outrage, this brings shame to all our people. I hope if you return soon you may tell me more on this matter. I lack news of our people and seem to be plagued by Elves and Men, without a Dwarf in sight. I very much want to know what Dain and the Dwarves of Erebor have planned to discover the culprits and avenge their heinous crimes. I wish our people were better united, outside our holds we are so few and far between. I have been thinking of carving some messages into the rocks outside Bree, ones only our folk would notice, so that all our travelling brethren could come together and perhaps pledge our support to Dain, over an un-poisoned ale or ten. When you return you will find me in the Greyflood, though I beg you hurry, Tharbad is a dark and worrying place, and I fear bad days will be upon it soon.

Since we parted in Imladris I have been a little idle. I have travelled some around Tharbad in the company of a Drughu, or Woseman, a wild creature, accompanied by a great wolf, whom I yet found a pleasant and worthy companion. It beats roaming with a bunch of Elves intent on chattering away in their tongue as though you were made out of glass. How I do miss you Rakhn my boy. You would have hated my last adventure, which would have tested your legendary patience to several hundred leagues past its’ explosive breaking point.

While outside the inn in Tharbad I encountered a group in heated interrogation of a watchman. It eventually transpired, after a very long time during which I became very confused and a little grumpy, that they thought to come to the aid of a lady, against the city authorities of Tharbad. The mayor and others are it seems corrupt in some way. After a most hearty meal in the Greyflood’s private dining room, we tracked the captain of the ship whom my companions, two elves, a hobbit, and a most entertaining Gondorian, bribed to get the lady’s destination. I still have no idea what all this is about and get a headache trying to think about it. The urge to bash-in orc skulls for a little light relief is overwhelming. You would have liked the Gondorian, who is weakest drinker I have ever met, but a good lad. One of the elves seemed a miserable and over-prudent sod, but perhaps I misjudged him. Anyway, not only are the city officials corrupt, but we perhaps saw a goblin on the streets of Tharbad! The creature was fast moving, but the right size, and I thought I heard the elves call it a goblin. I know three words of the Sindar tongue, “goblin”, “dwarf” and “idiot”, thanks to the barman at the Rivendell guesthouse, though luckily for his jaw the last two were not spoken in combination.

All this bodes ill, and I cannot wait to leave this Tharbad behind me. Men are weak and prone to evil, strange that their little ones are so innocent and full of joy, even in the poor quarters, yet they grow corrupt and ill-looking with age. It is a mystery to me.

Rakhn, I hope that soon I will be strong enough to make the journey to Erebor with you, I greatly wish to speak to the priest of Mahal who lives there. The journey is long and dangerous, and I fear I am not ready for it, especially not alone. I long to be amongst our folk, but as you know the Blue Mountains are as under a black cloud to me still. I hope this letter reaches you and finds you safe, and you heed my call to meet me in Tharbad.

Honour and Courage,

Nalnain Gentlehand

PS: Do you remember that elf Lomi-something you punched in The Pony? Have you seen him? I have a gift for him, partly in apology for my bloodthirst when we last met in Dunland, though I need to crack him on the jaw myself for suggesting I wanted to slaughter the little ones and women folk. I asked after him in Rivendell, but had no joy.

The old dwarf smiled. Now that was a better way to spend the evening. I wonder if I will bump into that Gondorian again, I'm so bad with names, Gae... drat! Not much good as an address, "The Gondorian whose name begins with G, can't take his drink, Minas Tirith"... Mmm... quaff... burp.

[clone number 3]

Nice post

[SNarfel]

dito, makes up for my current inabilty to play regularly. Thanks.

[clone number 3]

*Fosur awakens from his drunken stupor, banging his head on the underside of the table in the process*

It be Dwarves ye be wantin’? Reet!

[Steve-Law]

Upon his next visit to Erebor Rakhn Bloodbeard is handed a sealed parchment with his name written carefully on the front. The grizzled young Dwarf breaks the seal with some apprehension and begins to read, a puzzled scowl spreading slowly across his face.

"Bah, Nalnain, ye daft old sod," he mutters to himself, "Ye right about not seeing enough Dwarves, yer beginning te sound like an Elfish poetry circle ye soppy bugger..."

Rakhn folds the letter and places it surprisingly carefully in one of his packs, slings his shield over a shoulder and promptly heads straight back out of the great gate at a determined pace.

[ghost81]

In the anvil Lolinus sits, knocking back his 13th pint of the hour. He's is laxing lyrical about Dragons, his friends, Dragons, drink and dragons. Totally unaware that no-one is listening any more. Even Ma Chanvil has shut the kitchen door. However he is there, awaiting new faces to regale with his stories

[The Frenchman]

Nalnain carefully spreads another sheet of parchement on the table

Rhuri, Priest of Mahal
Erebor

Hail to 'He who is further down the Path',*

I had not yet had the opportunity to thank you for your aid when we last met, and for contacting our mutual Gondorian friend Gaerfast so that he could assist us on our ill fated expedition. It was a great honour to meet a Priest of Mahal on the road, though we did not have time to finish our discussion due to the joyful distraction of Rakhn's arrival. I know Rakhn thinks I am going all Elvish, but the call of Lore and worship grows stronger in me. I hope that when experience and events make Erebor my home, as I hope one day is the case, I can study with the priests of Mahal and join your brethren.

I am sure Gaerfast has related our boat journey and subsequent misadventures. I only hope for two things, that we encounter that wandering elf again, that I may assure him the spirits of his ancestors are at rest and return their property to him, and that I shall be present on the day the Mayor's head is stuck on a pike, so that I may wave cheerfully into his dead eyes, corrupt despicable swine that he is. I exaggerate of course, but my suspicions of him have only deepened.

Rumour has it that you know more of the Erebor misadventure. I would be grateful if you could come tell myself and other dwarves one day. These rumours are causing strife amongst our kin and the elves, and I fear blood may be spilled without firm cause. Look out for Runes on the road.

Mahal be with you Brother,

Nalnain Gentlehand

The middle-aged dwarf blinked suddenly as curtains beside him were pulled open and light poured out of the window. It was odd, was all he could say. Of late he felt younger, for a reason that escaped him. Perhaps the years away from home had made that dark cloud seem distant. Maybe it was the great pride he felt as he watched his kinsman Rakhn grow from chaotic firebrand to a warrior of devastating focused power. He grinned, best to stop thinking of him as a little one, it would not do. Yet it gave him a new feeling. When he'd first spoken of Nalnorn with him, Rakhn had said "I bet he's just found himself a lass in the Misties". Seeing Rakhn these last few years, Nalnain could not help thinking he had perhaps underestimated his son. This was a new thought, a hope he had not allow himself to entertain till recently. He was surprised to find it did not hurt anywhere as much as he had thought it would...

* One word in Khuzdul, denoting anything from a formal teacher student relationship to a simple mark of respect for someone who has shared their wisdom and experience with you. Analogous to the multiple meanings of the word 'Sensei' in Japanese.

[The Frenchman]

Sent before leaving Lake Town

Rakhn Bloodbeard, Erebor

I am returning to Tharbad, since our journey to Erebor and the Longbeards' reception has wearied me. I intent to rest for a while, and ask ye to keep me advised of any news of 'B' our enemy. Be well,

Nalnain.

Sent a week after arrival in Tharbad

To Old Rumn the Toymaker
Shire Road

This letter comes to ye borne by Klod, nephew of Lagnar of Tharbad. Though good with his hands, he’s not the sharpest tool in the box by far, in fact I have met brighter rocks, but his resolve is a stony as his head, so this should get to ye. Back to him in a moment, I have news.

I wanted the truth behind the rumours of poisoned ale and stolen necklace, so after meeting our kin Rhuri and Rakhn, I went with them to Rivendell, through the Mirkwood and it’s dratted spiders, and to Erebor, as I had long hoped to. Once there we were mostly shouted at by the Thane. Worse, one of the elves with us spoke in our tongue, which the High Priest of Mahal had taught him in a moment of madness, thereby landing 'he I most wanted to meet' in a whole heap of trouble. As ye can see it went really well, and I am sure to be remembered fondly on me next visit. I ask ye to spread a message amongst our kin in the West, since you are well placed and trusted by me to do so.

The elves are nay behind the theft, my word and honour on it. I will say little more but that a great darkness seeks to divide us from the elves, and set us against each other. It uses sneakery and thieves to do so. I have heard dread names I dare not repeat. Tell our kin to stand down, and leave the elves alone, instead watch the road for a one-eyed Mannish tinker, I will reward any Dwarf with news of him.

I am angered how we Firebeards, seeking only to aid, were spoken to by the Thane, and our word unheeded. In these dark times honour between the clans is failing. Our enemy cuts us even from our kin. Spread nay this message to our brothers, I’ll not replace spilling Elvish blood with a feud between Firebeard and Longbeard. Then again, I’m surprised we left without axes buried in our skulls. Was best the young ones kept me mouth shut.

Peace… is all I seek nowadays. Funny that when I left the Blue Mountains I sought only battle and death, and now that I feel closer to peace I find we are in a war I cannot begin to understand.

I saw something recently that gave me pause, and ye perhaps as a fellow toy-maker will understand. I was in Tharbad market, seeking some dye when a big Mannish drunk burst through the stalls, cursing and pushing, and threw a women with child to the ground. The people scattered in fear as the big man bellowed. I turned toward him, ready to knock him down and restore the peace. He spat insults at me, saying he would teach me some manners, but before I moved to break his jaw a jolly voice rang out behind him calling “Hey”. The drunk turned to see an old man, a fisherman I think, sat upon a bench. As he began to blubber curses toward him the old man asked “Good day sir, what is it you ‘ave been drinking?”. “Wine” the drunk said with surprise. “Wine?” The old man answered, “I like that too, my wife and I, we are both seventy-one you know, we drink wine in our garden on the last day of the week, under our apple tree, it is in bloom about now”. The drunk swayed and muttered “I like apple tree blossom”, seeming greatly confused. The old man asked “Tell me, a fine man like you must have a wife?” To this the drunk started to sob, and told of losing his wife, his work and his house, and almost dying of shame. As I walked away the drunk was laying himself down on the bench, head in the old man’s lap, and telling him his sad story. There is a great wisdom in this event, one I must think on deeply in the weeks ahead.

Anyway back to Klod. Lagnar wishes him to learn something precise and fiddly, like the toys you are renowned for. Klod has great powers of concentration, but is quite incapable of living in a big city like Tharbad, since he does nothing but drink ale and fight men. While these are worthy and fitting pursuits, Lagnar would like him to have a trade and bids me ask ye to apprentice him. Gold, tin and gifts from Klod’s family are accompanying the lad. Just please do not leave him unattended in pubs.

Honour and Courage

Nalnain

The smiling dwarf looked about at the Greyflood. The only difficulty with corresponding with Dwarves was they never bloody answered. He was tempted to write to some elves, in Rivendell, lady Isaniel, or the bookelf Sereg perhaps. Then again, he could just imagine what Rakhn would have to say about that... Maybe if he met more hobbits...

Off to France tomorrow to shadow Sensei on my first corporate training event and tester for start of new career. I might not have to dress as a washerwoman to escape the MOD after all. Wish me luck, and happy one-eyed tinker hunting to ye...

[DM_Gwaihir]

I am very sorry to ruin a great thread with OOC comments but I think one thing needs a little clarification here to avoid future misunderstandings.

[I]Worse, one of the elves with us spoke in our tongue, which the High Priest of Mahal had taught him in a moment of madness

No dwarf and especially not Kusil would ever teach any non-dwarf a word of Khuzdul.

This stems from a misunderstanding from an earlier event. Kusil offered to have some works from Erebor's library translated for the elf in question. This was understandably misinterpretted by the player as an offer of tuition because Kusil's meaning may have been obscured by five or six other players RPing away at the time.

Great stuff Frenchman, I hope one of these dwarves stirs himself to reply one day

[Mhyradin]

As do I, I feel this deserves a response, but I'm not going to make a dwarf just so I can post one And yes, I do appreciate that some dwarf players have put a few lines in, but come on guys, the poor dwarf is lonely

[Steve-Law]

Bear in mind also that not all Dwarves are going to be inclined towards letter writing. They are more direct than that. What do ye think we are, Elfs!

[DM Curumo]

Very well then, carve a few runic inscriptions into your monitor and post them here so that we can all see

[The Frenchman]

Argh train to catch in 5. Don't worry guys I'm quite aware that I'm not writing to characters likely to respond very lengthily at the moment (hell one of them is an NPC)
This will be rectified as time goes on and inspiration allows.
Before I go I must waggle my finger reproachfully at DM Gwaihir's OOC post, very naughty, an edict from Dain to the same effect might lead me to forgive him and cease this very mildy threatening finger movement.
Ooops taxi, have fun see you in a week or three

[Steve-Law]

Very well then, carve a few runic inscriptions into your monitor and post them here so that we can all see

*nods wisely*

*tap* ... *tap* ... *crack* ... *spark* ... *spark* ...

...

*BANG!*

...Bugger...

[ghost81]

There ye go lad, it's as I always said - ne'er write anythin' down it'll only get ye in trouble.

*Lolinus sits smiling knowingly and sups at his Aule's*

[vulpex]

//Argh, you people are making me internet literate. Not the way to inner peace, that.

To Nalnain

Ye start on the path of following yer maker thusly:
first: ye start drinking heavily
secondly: ye seek some bugger wiser than ye and sit on his doorstep couple of months
thirdly: ye do as yer heart tells ye

Fondly
Rhuri

[Steve-Law]

Identical letters are delivered to Lagnar, Alegard and Rumn with the instruction to be passed to Nalnain Gentlehand whenever he is seen next. The script is neat and carefully produced in a very formal style without any personal touches or flourishes.

Hail Nalnain, Be you well?

You may be smiling at the thought of me writing letters like some Elf but you will understand my exception in this case.

I have recently returned from a trip into Khazad Dum on a mission to recover some plans send there by the Elves of Rivendell some long time ago. I was not alone, but the details of the journey and the counting of orc corpses can wait for another time my friend. The purpose of this letter is essentially twofold:

To reassure you that despite great corruption within the once great Dwarven city I have been inside and returned alive to tell of it. If I, then Nalnan is capable of the same result. Or you old one, in my company, when we go to find the truth as I promised you.

The second part of the news is that I have spoken with one of the Elf lords and they have agreed to allow a copy of the recovered plans to be made so that I may take them to be placed in the Archives at Erebor. They were Elven plans it is true, but they were to be forged by the Dwarves of Khazad Dum and there are many annotations in Khuzdul which I am sure will be of great interest to the archivist and a valuable artefact of our past.

Anyway, enough of this. I will find you again soon old one and we shall drink to my great adventure and our future destination!

Rakhn Bloodbeard

[The Frenchman]

Nalnain laughed as he read his friend Rhuri’s message. The third line was easy to follow, since he did that already. Good to be reminded of it though. The second was trickier, he was quite prepared to go and sit on the High-Priest of Mahal’s doorstep, but considering how well the last visit to Erebor had gone, that could maybe wait a bit…

No it was the opening line that had made him guffaw loud enough to turn every head in the Greyflood:

‘first: ye start drinking heavily’

Being a well-read Dwarf, a rarity in many ways, Nalnain was aware this was the opening line of almost every Dwarven treatise on any subject he had ever come across from Erebor to the Blue Mountains. It was in the introduction of “Advice of a Master Stonecutter to his Apprentice” by Malin Stonebeard, topped the scroll of “Karlkarin Orcburier’s Guide to Travelling in Mannish lands”, featured as the first of five items on Golgli The Shortlived’s “How to handle explosives”, was undoubtedly found throughout the famous “The Dwarven Art of War” by Lolinus S. T. Balix and even featured prominently in the rare tome “A Young Dwarf Women’s Guide to Knitting – Mailwear Section” which if Nalnain remembered rightly his wife Star of the North had thrown at his head all those years ago.

Nalnain sighed. With any luck he would see Rhuri on the road soon…

[The Frenchman]

Klod ran down the hill, urged on by the certain knowledge of his definite lateness. He should have come back to Rumn with those supplies yesterday. Thing was, this man in the Pony had bought him an ale. A few hours later, after another twelve, he faintly remembered wrestling someone in a circle of people shouting and betting, before the less pleasant memory of being laid to sleep it off in a soggy ditch by the Bree Watch. Thoughts moved in Klod’s mind with the haste of tectonic plates trying to keep to geological deadlines. This would never do as an excuse. Rumn was going to kick his butt from here back to Tharbad.

Being Klod’s conscious thoughts was a bit like being a tiny whirring cog in a vast and ponderous machine, which while seemingly frantically active produced very little movement in the overall scheme on his mind, and would have passed unnoticed to all but the most astute and patient of observers. This was not to say Klod was stupid, anyone who watched the extraordinarily patient craft that went into the mechanical creatures he made as toys for the local children, so detailed as to be utterly lifelike, knew that in that rock of a head brilliant pictures of intricate beauty rested uncomfortably beside thoughts of ale and knuckledusters. It was words Klod disliked, they danced in his head like angry fairies and were about as willing to travel to his mouth as a mule was to enter Mordor. He puffed and huffed on the path, almost dropping his bundle of letters and packs of copper wire and silver hair.

Within sight of his old master’s caravan he stopped, and hid behind a bush. No excuses popped into his mind, for which he was most ungrateful. Oh bugger, if Rumn punched him in the stomach again he wouldn’t just be winded this time, he’d be sick all over his beard. The hunched Dwarf looked up as loud clear laughter rang out from beside the caravan. Klod perked up a bit. Sounded like that mad old Dwarf Nalnain. He was a mystery to the stocky young apprentice. He’d believed that the old Dwarf was fierce, and thought him utterly stupid. He’d quacked in his big studded boots when Nalnain had offered to accompany him back towards Bree. He’d brought him a letter from Rumn while visiting his uncle Lagnar, and Nalnain had almost dragged him straight back out of town, without even a pint. On the road the old Dwarf had so filled his head with stories, toy designs, metalworking advice and good cheer he’d barely noticed the walk. Not once had he mocked him for being slow, instead waiting an age for his painstakingly mulled over replies, watching him carefully with kindly if piecing eyes. Klod looked at his bundle of letters, stood up, and ran towards the caravan.

Klod shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, acutely aware of Rumn’s not-well-pleased expression, while shakily handing over Nalnain’s mail. “It’s fff for you Master ffff Firebeard” he stuttered. To his immense surprise Nalnain took one look at the writing on the letter and fell over backwards off his log. “Help me up Klod ye Bugger” spoke the wiggling boots from beneath the log “It’s from Rakhn, Seven Fathers! I’ll be darned”.

Afterwards, Klod tried to work out what had happened. He’d never seen the sea, so his mind had great difficulty describing a tidal wave of enthusiasm to itself in words other than ‘large high body of water moving rapidly across the land in an unstoppable manner except it is not actually water it’s more like an intangible mixture of happiness and excitement err…’, which you will agree is a clumsier phrase. There’d been back-slapping and ale barrel quaffing, tales of Moria and songs of Durin’s folk, long and vivid retelling by both old Dwarves of Rakhn’s many adventures, and joyous happenings till a few hours before dawn. Klod had woken up under an empty barrel, utterly bemused at not at any point having been punched in the stomach. Through misted eyes he watched Nalnain shoulder an enormous pack, and with a grin and a wave set off towards Tharbad. Funny old sod… Klod was going to miss him…

[The Frenchman]

Mmmm Looking back, it all went a bit Terry Pratchett there... Ooops sorry

Self

Dunno where else to put this, but it's Tolkieny and interesting:

http://home.clara.net/andywrobertson...mountains.html

[DM_Aiwendil]

A nice read, thank you. May I further chose a quote from it that, I think, sums up exactly why we are all here.

"... he was very conscious (no man has been more conscious of it than he) that an entire forest might spring from a handful of seed."

[The Frenchman]

To Rakhn and Rhuri of the Firebeards, Erebor, hail.

These long months I have inched closer to joining you at Erebor. Rakhn's talk of Moria has been echoed of late in Rivendell, and I feel that the day we travel into it's depths to seek Nalnorn will soon come, painful though it may be. I still wish to seek the council of Mahal in the Lonely Mountain first however, to strengthen my heart.
I grow sick of Tharbad, though some events have been amusing. I fought a great many trolls with two men. One Ragnar, and a strange one called Ashal. He called himself a Breelander, but his speech is wrong, and his helm never came off in my sight. However, without him I would be flat crushed under a number of large rocks, so I cannot hold it against him.
I composed a Dwarven ballad during that adventure, which I am quite proud of, since I am not very musical. It goes:

Kill! Kill! Kill the trolls, merrily in the caves,
Merrily merrily merrily, death is but a dream...

that's the chorus anyway. Trolls do make a lovely noise when they fall.
I hope you are both well and hope to see you soon.
Strength and Honour,

Nalnain

[The Frenchman]

To Rumn on the Bree Road,

Hail old friend, I just want to convey a little news and ask a favour. I know my fellow dwarves will laugh at me for the next century but I need to tell you of a small incident with some trolls. I had gone into the Shaws troll hunting with a man called Ivan. Luckily on our way we met a hobbit called Merin, whom I knew from Bree, as did Ivan I think. This was fortuitous, in view of later events.

Outside a cave we uncovered, we were ambushed by a huge party of trolls. I was stuck down halfway through the fight, as was Ivan. Merin bless her finished the beasts off with the aid of an elf from Rivendell, luckily on patrol nearby. Once revived, and despite the elf's advice to go for more supplies, we pressed on into the cave and into ambush after ambush. Goblins, trolls aplenty, and one huge and terrifying cave troll who toyed with us like a cat doth with mice. He seemed particularly wont to drop large rocks unto my head. Eventually Ivan and I, despite fighting bravely, were overcome. Ivan fled in terror, and I was knocked down, wounded to the death for the second time.

Merin being quicker and subtler than us both led the trolls off on a merry chase. Had she not returned with the elf I would have assuredly been the cave troll's dinner. Not only that but she defeated a troll chief singlehanded. Indeed these hobbits are a most wonderously surprising folk. We eventually found Ivan in Tharbad, drunk with worry and ale, and so the tale ended happily thanks to Merin Trollkiller.

In view of the above, can you do me a favour, in exchange for the anecdote which I free you to disseminate to my detriment? I gave Merin one of the toys I made when I first met her in Bree. A mechanical Goblin warrior, one of the strongest toys I have made. Do you know she has broken it twice! I gave her some oil and a cleaning kit for the goblin, but knowing her I have no guarantee she won't lose it, use it as lockpicking equipment or to set fire to someone's hair. If you see her on the Bree road, can you ask after the goblin, and give it any maintenance it requires?

I hope to see you soon, though I think I may travel to Erebor, then Moria in the next year. I may not return from the journey, but I will try to come and see you before I go.

Still, I wonder what happened to that cave troll, I hope we meet again, next time I'll smash his knees and jump up and down on his head. I might bring a troll killing hobbit for safety though.

Strength and Honour,

Nalnain

[Mhyradin]

Merin sat the table and drank the beer she'd pestered out of Butterbur on the way in. She took a small tin toy out of her backpack and wound it up. Watching gleefully she giggled as it shunted the empty beer mugs around the table until it wound down. She picked it up and fidgeted with it.
Fidget fidget.
Fidget fidget fidget fidget.
Twiddle fidget fidget fidget.
SNAP! "Aaaaw, wot di it ave ter go an break fer? It weren't nuffin I did." Merin sat and sulked for a full three minutes (which is a very long time for her to do any single thing).

Rumn rolled his eyes and sighed deeply as he saw the hobbit run up. He held up his hands, partly to silence her and partly to protect himself in case she didn't stop in time.
"Hold on there lass, let me guess..."

[The Frenchman]

To the Ladies Isaniel, Galia, and Mereniel of Rivendell

Hail, I hope this missive, written on my first night of camping since leaving Tharbad, and given to a passing dwarf, reaches you safely and finds you well.
When we spoke in Rivendell you enquired as to the tale of my son Nalnorn, and offered aid. I have decided to take you up on this, but I will write this tale quickly, since I wish not to stain this manuscript in an undwarvenly manner.
Nalnorn was a big dwarf, possibly the best fighter of his generation, though to be fair Rakhn was mightier, if much less focused. When he was a lad I used to sing him the song of Durin, for which I curse myself to this day. He became obsessed with stories of Moria, which when he was little my wife Star of the North and I were happy to play along with. When she died in a mining accident, while Nalnorn was away fighting in that fateful expedition that saw Rakhn leave the Blue Mountains, he was devastated. We grew apart, my grief had driven me to ale and ever deeper parts of the mines, I made no toys and spoke to none more than a few words. Nalnorn had no pride in a drunk miner.
While I turned from all, he fell in with some visiting Longbeards. There was talk of an expedition to Moria, a folly I thought. It is only recently that I heard that Balin had gone to Moria around that time. I know not if the two expeditions were related, it is not till the last couple of years that the madness of grief has lifted, and I have paid any real attention to current affairs, or the doings of the Longbeards.
All I know is that Nalnorn came to me one day to announce he was leaving for Moria. Two Longbeards, Nolin and Fudor, and one of our folk, a good lad called Cloduar, accompanied him. We argued, well fought really, but being drunk I am unsure what was said. He left, and I went deeper still into the mine. I waited two years, but no word came. Then one night Star of the North came to me in a dream and the next day I found myself walking from the Blue Mountains. I wandered aimlessly till I reached the Shire, found the hobbits kindly and sought to aid then, and that is how I met Isaniel and so on. Of Nalnorn none have given word, and even his friend Rakhn, who has guided me many times on the road, has heard nought of him. There, the tale is done.
I am on the road to Erebor, to live there a while, seek the High Priest of Mahal's guidance, and gather my strength and friend for a journey to Moria. I will send word soon.
On another note, please tell Lady Galia I have found her contestants. One is named Klod and resides near Bree, the other is chomping on grass behind me. She will know what I mean.
Be well,

Nalnain Gentlehand