|Male Human (Extraplanaer Subtype) Expert 10||
In regards to the background, here are some things brewing in my mind regarding the Tarnhammers, et al.
Elmador's research reveals that Mirrin was the oldest known direct heir to the throne of Dammerhall, born a few scant years before his cousin Garnult.
Elmador, Mirrin, and Garnult lost their fathers on the same day, in the battle only Garnult survived. Suggested change to backstory/narration since Bryggya does not have a voice to have spoken to him: As Garnult lay broken but not destroyed on the battlefield surrounded by his fallen kin, and feels the strangely soothing embrace of death, his thoughts of joining his family are shattered by pain, and he regains consciousness. A Dwarven maiden silently sits above him, her hand on his chest, laid bare by some force that has rent his armor open. She sadly shakes her head, pointing to his dead father and uncle, all his kinsmen. She pulls him to his feet, and then she is gone. His wounds have been closed. (Even now, in the dark of night or any other absence of light, the scars, not visible by the sight of men, glow a silver sheen under darkvision.)
While Garnult struggled to make sense of why he was spared, Mirrin became inundated with dwarves seeking a return to Dammerhall and glory. They wanted him to pick up where his father left off. But his father left off bleeding on a cave floor surrounded by the enemies of dwarvenkind. And Mirrin has no patience for fools or sycophants and even less for those who thought themselves wise enough to manipulate him. After the death of his mother at the hands of those who would see him king, Mirrin left the clanholds, seeking solace in brew and darkness.
While Elmador isn't exactly on the top of the list of Heirs of the Dammerhall throne, he was always fascinated by the stories of it's glory, and obsessed by the lack of information about its fall. He has studied the genealogies and knows that their are fewer then two dozen dwarves still alive within the Tarnhammer bloodline. In another decade, there may be fewer than a dozen. The time to seek the restoration of the lost kingdom of the dwarves is now, the iron has been cooling too long and another blow like the one at the battle in which their fathers were lost could shatter the blade of hope forever.
Any discussions Elmador may have ever had with Mirrin regarding the throne were met with contempt, and that was before he wandered off into the underdark, probably getting himself killed in some dank hole. Mirrin has given up on dwarven society, and has proven his own words: he is no king. Elmador has had more luck with his other distant cousin, Garnult. While the battle changed Garnult, it also left him undeniably second in line for the throne of Dammerhall. And if Mirrin would have nothing to do with it, perhaps it was time for Garnult to step up to that plate.
The research and planning has been over a year in the making- the key to Dammerhall lies not in climbing to find it, but rather in delving- there is an underground entry known to so very few. The priesthood of Bryggya know something of this, something Garnult has learned in his struggles to understand why he was spared. To that end, they have contacted the secretive church and asked for aid in their quest to retake Dammerhall. Aid they have received in the form of Dain and Donagh.
Needing an expert on the dangers of the underdark if they are to survive the long journey, they have found one in Wrex, an odd but extremely useful dwarven cave druid with reasons of his own for joining the expedition. Wrex is a friend to the church of Bryggya and has aided many a Bryggyan priest on his deep journey.
Elmador's research and Bryggya's lore told of one further thing needed to complete the journey: a Dammerhall-crafted short sword cloaked in legend. It was somehow the key to reclaiming Dammerhall. Months of inquiries both discreet and overt led nowhere, and the journey was delayed.
One day, it just walked into Dain's brewhouse at the side of a young dwarf seeking a bit of the good stuff. Grunyar thought the brewer was pulling his leg when he recognized the blade, going almost as far as walking out. After all, he'd been the butt of many an elder's jokes before. But he had known from the moment he's laid eyes on it that this blade was special. And now, it was leading him into something that felt like.... destiny. And, if it was destiny, maybe it would help him overcome the guilt and shame he felt for the means he received the blade.
For four days and nights Mirrin lay in a crack in a granite wall and shivered with hallucinations and nightmares. A dwarven woman being tortured by a foul black-skinned elf with seven arms. She neither cried out nor gave in. Mirrin could feel her pain, could feel the needles trying to pierce her skin. He could feel the wrack stretching her limbs. He could feel her control and her strength. He could feel her longing to be by her brother's side, forging all manner of wonders. At the end of it, when his water was nearly gone and tired from the struggle with the venom he made his way back to civilization to gather what remained of his family, and reclaim what was rightfully theirs to forge.