Etur Lanternbury, Fortress Shincrafts

The journal of a 71 year old nobody.

That's me. I was a hauler not long ago, no skills or riches to speak of. The mountain home was a glorious place, carved into the living cliffs of an island forgotten by the goblin hordes of the mainlands. It's a good place and a fine place for a dwarf to live, elves exist only in exquisite parody in our masterfully engraved walls. Jewels carved like breathing flame adorned the beds of the nobles.

I was no noble.

Craftdwarves wrought splendor from metal, wood and bone.

I was no craftdwarf.

I carried the jewels and the beds, but they were never to be mine. To pass the time I would read the walls, all of our history and lore was there. I yearned for the lost days when seven dwarfs set out to this island, an uncertain future in front of them. Those seven struck the earth and made this place. The making, I could not help but think, had to be more enjoyable than the 'comfort' their descendants enjoyed.

So when I saw the notice, when the call went out for seven dwarfs to found a new outpost at the summit of the island, at the very peak of The Spongy Rages, the island's volcanic father.

It seems our dwarfs had deforested our territory. With out the wood, we could work no more metal. The earth's fiery blood, along with the wood at its summit would serve the mountain home well.

My name was not the first on the list of volunteers, but it was close. I was given the choice of axe or pick to take with me, along with the supplies the mountain hoped would hold us until the first caravan arrived. I chose the axe.

It was made of wood.

Oh well. I was more than ready to STRIKE THE EARTH!