Dragonshore, The Tale of the (DnD Story)

The Tale of the Dragonshore

Today, the dwarves of the Dragonshore are a maritime force to be reckoned with. But this was not always the case. Below is the story of the Dwarves of Hammerdeep, their fall, and their redemption.

Come ye Dwarves of Hammerdeep

The fortress-city of Hammerdeep was a marvel of Dwarven architecture. Found in the middle of the Veather plains, a thousand mile stretch of soft mud and chalk, it was a rare Dwarven settlement found almost entirely above the surface of the earth. The stones of it's walls, brought in from distant quarries, were old and well worn, but more solid than the finest steel. The paving of the roads fit together without flaw, and led up a gentle slope to the central Spire, a massive stalagmite of carved rock and reinforced timber. Within the Spire, the Dwarves worked the finest jewels, the finest weapons to grace the hands of mortals. Coming down from the faraway mountains, the river Sten flowed through its base, powering wondrous machines of fascinating complexity. Among these was the Grundhammer, the city's crown jewel. The ringing of this massive hammer, its head the size of a mountain, its handle once wielded by Grund the Giant in the dawn of time, gave the city its name. Below the city, a network of tunnels and supports guaranteed that the heavy stone on the surface would not sink into the fragile earth, where a trove of diamonds, rubies, and other gems could be found. Around the city were human lands, rife with trade and opportunity, who assured that wealth flowed through Hammerdeep's solid walls. Then the Dragons came.

The scouring of the Veather

They came from the sea, with fire in their wake. Seven Dragons came that day, every one a fearsome beast, but together there was nothing they could not take. First to fall were the coastal cities, marvels in their own right, but even with Dwarven steel on their side, they fell to flame and fang. Those who survived fled inland, hoping to escape the Dragons' wrath, only to run into more devastation. For a month the plains were scoured, striped of their wealth, and left to languish with nothing to their name. Many a hero died on those lands, powerless before those reptilian titans. Any defense the men could mount, was brushed aside with nary an effort spent. And so the Dragons fattened on the richness of the Plains, growing in size and power with every passing day until, at last, they turned their eyes on Hammerdeep.

The Seven Day War

For seven days, these seven beasts, they fought with dwarven ire.

At dawn on the first day, Bravig the Reckless, youngest of the wyrms, came to claim the shining city a trophy for his hoard. He was a fearsome beast, lean and quick, and breathing scorching flames, but the stones of Hammerdeep stood the test, and he was sent back with ease.

At dawn on the second day, he returned with another of is kin, Zavret the Indolent, to raze the offending city to the ground. Zavret was a colossal beast, and his weight broke against Hammerdeep's ancient gate, bending steel and cracking rock, but still, the city stood.

At dawn on the third day, another joined the fray. When Tughoth the Gluttonous arrived, the city held it's breath, for such was the stench. She breathed not fire, but disease, reaching the defending Dwarves behind their walls of stone. Against her deadly emanations, the people of Hammerdeep took to the city's depths, sealing their doomed defenders with the vicious foe.

At dawn on the fourth day, seeing the tilt of power, Vaygue the Cunning came to claim the glory, his small stature making him seek any possible advantage. But the Dwarves found a second wind, and fought them back once more, their armies supported by centuries of weaponscraft and arts of war.

At dawn on the fifth day, the Dragons called for aid. Over the mountains came Azmagon the Despoiler, veteran of countless conflicts and slayer of countless kings. True to his nature, his first blast of flame fractured the great walls of Hammerdeep, first laid by Grund in the first age. The Dwarves retreated to their great Spire, taking refuge in their grand creation, hoping to outlast the dreaded drakes.

At dawn on the sixth day, Valamar the Collector came to claim the city's many riches. Not letting mere rock block her path, she clawed her way through the Spire's ancient walls, slaying the King upon his throne. Through Dwarven wrath and fury, she left that day with nothing more than the crown her victim bore.

At dawn on the seventh day, the defenders were on their last resources. Every ounce of powder and fury had been leveraged against the foe, and still the Spire had fallen. When the dragons drew back, the people cheered, but their joy was short lived. For from the sea came Anghammarad, elder of the dragons. His form blocked out the sun, his maw as large as a Dwarven Engine. The fire he breathed turned the ground to glass, and with his mighty talons he ripped the Grundhammer from its mount, raising it into the sky. The great hammer dropped one final time, crashing down on all the dwarves had built, all they had made, all they had loved.

At dusk that day, Hammerdeep had fallen.

Counterattack

But as the Dragons descended to claim their due, the Dwarves of Hammerdeep rose from the depths. All those who had sealed their doors saw the destruction they had wrought, saw their city burned to ash, saw their brethren slayed by the thousands. They rose from the depths with wrath and fury, every one a berserker born by ire, shrugging off mortal blows to put an end to these dreaded beasts. Under their sustained assault the Dragons, drained of fire, gathered what they could and fled, the Dwarven horde at their heels. They chased them to the sea, and the Dragons flew to their faraway home, leaving their pursuers on the shore. The Dwarves were left with nothing, their fury spent, replaced with grim resolve and a desire for revenge. They were then faced with a choice. To return to their keep, to rebuild, to reforge, to remake, to prepare for the Dragons eventual return, or to set sail on the dreaded sea, to hunt down those who had wronged them and bring them crashing down. Dwarves detest the sea. They hate these dragons more.

A scourge upon the sea

Within the day, they had commandeered every vessel, every ship that still could sail, and gathered what remained of their ancestral home. Of the humans they learned of the Dragons' home, the distant isle of Dragonshore. With the Dragons' shadows still dark on the horizon, they set sail in pursuit, every mind, body and soul alligned in a single purpose, a single goal. In their hold, their hoard of weapons, on their deck, great cannons of steel. For seven weeks they sailed, through ocean storms and fiendish waves, so great was their devotion. At dawn on the seventh day of the seventh week, they came to the natural fortress of Dragonshore, said by men to have no wharf. But nothing stops a Dwarf.

Seven deadly Dragons fall

As the Dwarves scaled the island's sheer cliff walls, they came upon the nook of Bravig, who isolated himself of his compeers. When he saw the Dwarves, he did not fret, for he knew he had time before they mounted an attack, before they came at him with sharpened blades. Time enough to rip them to shreds, and consume their corpses with great delight... But the Dwarves did not delay. At the sight of their hated enemy, they charged with guttural cries of war and deep hatred in their hearts. Beneath their blows, he fell, for he sought to fight the horde alone. And so ended Bravig, the Boastful Bragart.

Upon the island they found a cave, monumental in it's proportions, and within it's mouth, they found Zavret, fast asleep beneath the rock. Against such a foe, they knew their weapons would have no effect, for in size he rivaled the great Anghammarad. And so, they laid powder throughout the walls, and when it blew, the mass of rock, the might of the mountain came down upon the slumbering beast, who went without even having time to wake. And so ended Zavret, the Slumbering Behemoth.

With the fall of the cave, the Dragons woke, and wondered what disturbed their slumber. While Tughoth left, to find the prey, The Dwarves snuck into her lair, and laid a bottle of their most deadly poison upon her store of rotting meat and writhing vermin. Making their swift escape, they awaited the Dragon Matron's eventual return. Having found nothing to sate her endless apetite, Tughoth returned to her den, to consume her tainted grub. The poison acted well, even within her blighted gut, and soon she fell, her hunger finally sate. And so ended Tughoth, the Toxic Plague.

Through this all, the trickster lurked. He had witnessed the Dwarves' arrival, and saw a chance to take the spoils of his fellow kin. In the shadows, he waited for the Dwarves to have their fill of vengeance, for them to return upon the winding sea. But the Dwarves were wise to his ploy, and in the depths of the island's caves, they lured him into a trap. He followed a group of treasure-carrying Dwarves, with nary a guard in sight, thinking them easy pickings to add to his own, diminished hoard. But from the walls, and from the floor, the Dwarves rose with vengeful ire, blocking all escape, and putting an end to Vaygue's little schemes. And so ended Vaygue, the Wishful Trickster.

When the Dwarves came upon the den of Azmagon, they had no chance to plan. He rose from his pit with speed, sending his would-be attackers into disarray. But the Dwarves of Hammerdeep would not be so easily broken. As he clove the Dwarven warriors, they matched him blow for blow. For untold hours the battle endured, his scales crumbling to Dwarven hammers, his fire spent upon the foe. Until at last, beneath the earth, the final Dwarf dealt the final blow. And so ended Azmagon, the Wrathful Brute.

Valamar's hoard was deep indeed, holding mountains made of gold. It was her pride, the product of centuries old. And so, while she was lured away, the Dwarves came with shovels and carts, taking it all to the island's jagged coast. When she saw what they had done, her wrath was great, and she sped in pursuit, thinking of nothing but the chase. At island's edge, the Dwarves stood by, and when she was nearly upon them, dumped her hoard into the sea. Without thinking, she plunged into the writhing waves, the jagged rocks, the sharpened cliffs. Upon the surf, her corpse was thrown, bathed in her most precious gold. And so ended Valamar, the Careful Caretaker.

In a deep water-filled cave, the heart of his domain, Anghammarad slumbered, dreaming of millennia gone by. The deep waters, his age old nest, had sheltered him from the disturbance above, and through it now, the Dwarves descended. As they busied themselves around his slumped form, he opened one lazy eye. He saw the Dwarves, saw the devices they had brought, but thought nothing of it. He had lived for eons long, and had survived these countless trials. He had earned a little rest, and would deal with these invaders when he awoke. When the Dwarves returned to the surface, their depth charges boiled the elder Dragon's very home. But such as this would not be the end of Anghammarad. He rose from the shifting waters, suddenly very awake, and very angry. But he was wise with time, and did not rush blindly into the fray. He was tired and spent, and took his time to study his foe. But the Dwarves, they jeered, they taunted, they beckoned him to strike. They showed no fear, and this, Anghammarad did not accept. They were prey, an inferior race. What could they do against him, one of the precursors of the world? He struck out his head, seeking to eat his assailants whole, and from the cave's vaulted ceiling, a blade of dragonscale fell. Anghammarad's head rolled, his massive form falling back into the depths, but still, he insisted, What could these Dwarves do to me?. And so did not end Anghammard, the Ancient Lord, for his sheer stubornness in the face of death allowed him to endure for many millenia more.

Dragonshore Rises

Upon the isle of their ancient foe, the Dwarves constructed a citadel of bone and scale, a new Hammerdeep, its walls of natural stone, it's furnaces and foundries powered by Aghammarad's unending dragon fire. From the Elder Dragon's ancient cave, a path was made to the greater seas, and today it serves as port, wharf and shipyard. From the smitten Dragon corpses, they clad their iron ships, powered by Dwarven fire. And once again into the seas they went, with renewed vigor and weapons of war, never sated with those they had slain, determined to rid the world of these winged pests.

Birth of the Clans

Upon the slayers of the mighty dragons, great honors were bestowed after the rise of their new home.

From the brave fighters who charged Bravig during the opening hours of the invasion, the Clan of the Burning Fire was born, it's members just as restless and impatient as the beast they had slain. Their first admiral was Brian Bloodwater, a frothing berserker, always the first to the fight, and the last to leave. Their Wyrmclad ships spouted beams of flame at their foes before their overzealous boarding parties made quick work of the charred crew. To this day, they are the most unpredictable element of the Great Fleet, preferring to do what they desire more than what is right.

From the cunning artificers who brought an end to Zavret despite his thick hide, the Clan of the Breaking Bow was born (bow as in front of a ship, not archery), it's members calculating and slow to act, just as their oversized opponent once was. Their first admiral was Hadvar Ironhide, a genius of siege warfare and long range engagements. Their massive vessels, by far the largest and most well equipped among their peers, were floating fortresses, drifting slowly through their home waters, raining fire from a great distance upon any invaders. They tend to spend their days languishing and napping, waiting for threats worth their attention to appear on the horizon, or for the other Clans to call them in against a particularly unruly foe.

From the swift operatives who poisoned the grub of the putrid Tughoth, the Clan of the Howling Wolf was born, it's sailors ever so fond of mead and meat. Their first admiral was Krey Sharktooth, a rotund drunkard fond of feasting and brawling. Their swift vessels, unarmed for greater speed and space, are the hosts of unending festivities, the great amounts of foodstuffs they consume being acquired from the coastal settlements they patrol. When independent privateers are found hogging their waters, however, they are faced with rapidly approaching ships filled with angry, drunk dwarves, who rapidly board and pillage anything they deem edible. This lifestyle has carried on for many years, and several towns having been under their "protection" for the entirety of their existence.

From the sneaky ambushers who brought an end to Vaygue's endless schemes, the Clan of the Cawing Crow was born, but was seen as beneath the others, for their prey was petty and weak. Their first admiral was Gogrin Blackwing, an crooked genius whose many creations were always flawed in some strange, unfathomable fashion. They are always looking for an opportunity for advancement, whether it be developing new forms of machinery or sabotaging their fellow kin. Their presence is tolerated by the other Clans for their heritage, but many would like to see them destroyed, even though their more successful prototypes eventually go on to better the Fleet as a whole.

From the mighty warriors who slew the great despoiler, Azmagon, the Clan of the Flying Spear was born, though few of the skilled combatants could be saved after the battle. Their first admiral, the one who lay the final blow upon the foe, was Trunvar Foeseeker, skilled with the blade if not with the pen. Their battle-hardened vessels always sail in search of greater foes upon which to test their metal and hone their art. They are feared and hated throughout the known seas, for they do not discriminate between their targets, assaulting anything that crosses their path. To this day, they are the strong arm of the Fleet, always called to the most dangerous battlegrounds and most fearsome conflicts.

From the determined opportunists who sent Valamar to her doom, the Clan of the Crashing Wave was born, it's members having braved the tumultuous seas to recover as much of the late dragon's hoard as they could. Their first admiral, Crask Goldheart, was a greedy dwarf, keeping any riches he could get his hands on. They quickly fell to piracy, using superior force rather than cunning tactics to plunder merchant and military vessels alike. Though they rarely give any of their riches back to the Fleet, maintaining a sizable hoard in the depths of Dragonshore, they are none the wiser to the other Clans often helping themselves when in need of a bit of pocket change.

From the prideful galivanters who slew the great Anghammarad with nary an effort made, the Clan of the Broken Sword was born, a group devoted to the superiority of words over blades. Their first admiral, Galmarr Depthfinder, was the dwarf who led the original fleet sailing to the Dragonshore, and later organized the trap laid for their ancient prey. They function as diplomats and traders, acting as the main link between the island and the outside world. Though they do not have official authority, their word is often treated with more weight than that of the other Clans, to the great ire of the Cawing Crows. Their vessels are most often lightly armed and armored, allowing for more goods to be transported, though they are usually escorted by fellow vessels from the other Clans to ensure their safety.

The Penitent One

After several years of ocean-bound activity, however, the Elder Clans began to drift from their original purpose, the founding principles of Dragonshore; to hunt Dragons, wherever they may be. Then, from over the horizon, seen from their mighty fortress upon the sea, a shadow flew towards the Dragonshore. It was the shadow of a dragon, his scales of pure white gold. The fleet was called, defenses were mustered, and the forces of Dragonshore readied for the Beast's arrival, but to no avail. The dragon came not to fight, but to submit. He had witnessed the destruction his kin had wrought upon the world, and wished to see it end. He offered his aid, but the dwarves of Dragonshore were uncertain. The Great Clans called for his head, his scales to be added to the Grand Fleet's trove, but many younger dwarves, disgusted by the ineficiency and indulgence of their elders, made a deal with the drake. They would build for him a ship on a scale never seen before, a mighty vessel that would serve as his roost, and he would aid them in their endless hunt, wherever it may take them.

And so, from the disillusioned idealists who wished to carry on their ancestors' legacy, the Clan of the Dying Snake was born, never fully recognized by it's peers, but nevertheless deeply respected. Their first, and current, admiral is Quyrobos the Penitent, the only dragon to serve within Dragonshore's ranks. Unlike their older brethren, the dwarves of this clan have no motive other than their determined hunt, and rely heavily on the other clans for supplies and support. Of all the clans, they venture the furthest from the Dragonshore, seeking out ther prey in every corner of the world. Their flagship, the Leviathan, is the largest in the fleet, a collosal mass of iron and scale bristling with weaponry of all kinds, and serves as the Clan's home away from home during their grueling voyages, as well as being a nest for their draconic admiral.

There Will Always be Dragons

For centuries, the clans of dragonshore have vied, wared, and scuffled for their place at the peak of the hierarchy, accumulating ever-increasing wealth in their island hoard. As a side note, they hunt their foe of yore, the mighty dragons, but most have strayed from such noble endeavours. Even if they were to complete their hunt, however, they would not have slain every last dragon standing. For the Dwarves of Dragonshore are dragons in mind, if not in form.

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