The Misadventures of Tall Dwarf and Short Elf

In the land of Utora, on the continent of Izland, lived all manner of fae creatures—Elves, Goblins, Fairies, and Dwarves. It is commonly believed that Dwarves, despite their strength, are all small in stature. However, this is not true for every Dwarf, especially not for this particular Fae.

Jorund Ironhammer came from a long line of master blacksmiths. The Ironhammers were one of the most famous names in Dwarven ancestry. Their armour was so renowned that they crafted wares for anyone willing to pay the right price, bringing fame to their name throughout all the Kingdoms of Izland. No smithing job was too big or small for this family, and Jorund excelled in blacksmithing like the rest of his kin.

However, Jorund wasn’t like regular Dwarves; he was unlike any other that had been born before him, standing six feet tall—two feet taller than even the tallest of his brethren. Despite his height, Jorund always went out of his way to fit in. He invented contraptions to help him use the forges, just like the rest of the Dwarves. Although innovative, he would quickly become bored and seek new ways to entertain himself, sometimes leading to conflict with his elders.

He made efforts to improve passageways through the mountain mines included the installation of scaffolding to enhance operational efficiency as he adjusted the height and distances of the miner’s access to ore. However, Jorund sometimes overlooked his own height, adjusting tunnel elevations to suit himself, which caused inconvenience for his colleagues. While other Dwarves expressed dissatisfaction with these modifications, the scaffolding enabled miners to work more effectively by providing elevated access. Due to limited wood resources, Jorund routinely dismantled the scaffolding at night for reuse elsewhere, consequently leaving certain ore deposits inaccessible without additional equipment such as ladders.

Many scenarios like these left a bad taste in his brethren’s mouths regarding Jorund’s interventions. However, it was his fascination with magic that finally pushed him to leave. He combined traditional blacksmithing with rune magic, reinforcing weapons, shields, and armour to give his creations an edge—even over his own family’s work. The combination of magic and ironwork had never been practised before, as Dwarves believed such magic to be the work of Elves. Despite Jorund’s insistence, no other Dwarf would listen. His practice in Rune Etching was still somewhat unrefined, sometimes causing exploding metal to fracture and project shards across the forge, resulting in multiple injuries—fortunately, none severe. The fear of being impaled by stray shrapnel made others uneasy, and even his family began to distance themselves from him.

Jorund begged and pleaded, but no one listened. He was too stubborn to follow the ways of his people. Despite all the difficulties, he knew that if he stayed, he would not be able to expand his interests. His wares would merely be a continuation of his family’s legacy, which wasn’t enough for him. Not only had he physically outgrown his home, but mentally as well.

It was not an easy decision, but one he knew he had to make. Jorund made his announcement and, with an emotional goodbye, informed everyone that he would be leaving to travel the Continent of Izland, learn what he could, and make his wares his own. Both he and his family were nervous, as Jorund had never travelled before; his people were not known for venturing, and many had never seen the light outside their Atrium. As scared as Jorund was, he was suffocating, and the fear of staying was more debilitating than the thought of leaving. He was excited to explore and discover what the world had to offer.

So, as Jorund made himself ready to leave, he gave his mother and father a final kiss goodbye before turning his back on them. He felt the weight of his people’s eyes pressed into his back as they all stood close to the dwelling’s entrance, fearful of the outside world. Jorund looked up at the perfect blue sky, the fluffy white clouds passing overhead in the brisk, chilly breeze. He smiled and closed his eyes as the wind blew through his beard and long, dirty blonde hair. He took a deep inhale of the fresh air, blowing the smell of pine up the mountain. Gradually, he opened his eyes and looked at the rocky mountain below and beyond that, the open land, trees, and rivers coursing through the undulating landscape. He tugged on the strap of his backpack with a determined grin. He was ready to see what this world had to offer. With a wave to his family and friends, he began his descent, leaving the only home he had ever known.

As Jorund bravely stepped forward into this new world, he heard the heavy iron door rumble across the stones as it closed. He paused, turning his head to look over his shoulder, then tightened his jaw and decided against it. He was not going to look back. The only way was forward. He wanted this—he wanted to grow within his craft, explore, and see new things. He boldly looked forward, holding himself strong against the increasing wind, before quickly rubbing his exposed arms. “Cor! It’s a wee bit chilly out here.”

He proceeded with the long process of removing his poleaxe, pulling the leather strap loose, taking off his pack, and slowly emptying it of its contents, bit by bit, before, right at the very bottom, sat his jumper. He smiled, pulling it from the base of the backpack, but as he did so, he knocked down all of his finely placed hammers and tongs, sending them spilling, clanging, and echoing down the mountain. Jorund just sighed at his mishap, then pulled on his jumper and stood up, looking at his disappearing tools.

“I guess I’ll collect them as I climb down.”

Little did he know that his parents stood watching him through a gap in the door; his father slapped his forehead in frustration over his son’s clumsiness, while his mother just shook her head, desperate to see the good in him. “Look, he’s packed up his backpack just fine. He is beginning to walk down the mountain now. I think he is going to be okay.”

Jorund’s father just sighed, turning his back to the door.

“That lad won’t make it a day out there.”

Fortunately, Jorund had no idea of his father’s discouragement as he walked the long, winding path down the mountain. This road was ancient, carved into the mountain’s craggy rock face by his ancestors. Mainly used by traders and for moving goods, the road, despite its age and lack of maintenance, looked in good condition, if not aged. Jorund smiled to himself as he stared at the workmanship that went into carving the detailing on the railings. Ancient stories of the Dwarves were displayed, playing out in the stonework.

“Fascinating!” Jorund said to himself, drawing closer to the railings, running his rough hand over the decoration. “The ageing has given it a tumbled look… I wonder if the stone masons did this on purpose.” He took a moment longer to fully appreciate the workmanship before something metallic caught his eye.

“My hammer and tongs!”

Quickly, he ran down the stairs, skidding as he did so in haste, joyful to have found his disappearing tools. He scooped them up and thoroughly inspected them. Suddenly, his smile fell into a frightful frown, wrinkling his forehead. His favourite tongs had bent, rendering them useless. He cursed, sending echoes of his profanity through the mountain. As he finally calmed himself, he stared at the dented tool for a few moments. He sighed and began the long, arduous process of removing his backpack, removing all its contents, and replacing them with the tools he had found. Once Jorund was satisfied that his backpack was packed with the utmost efficiency, he stood up and continued his journey down the mountain.

As he continued his descent, he looked about the landscape, wondering where he would journey first. He had no map, and all he saw was continuous woodland stretching all the way to the horizon. As he began to feel the full weight of his lack of planning, he began to feel overwhelmed; he had never even stepped further than the mountain’s shadow before, and the nagging thoughts began to panic him. This was the first time he felt the sun on his skin, the wind in his hair, the smell of the pine in the air. The land just seemed so big; never in his life had he felt so small. He looked back up the mountain, wondering if he should turn back. But he heard the voices of his people, everyone telling him what to do, the frustration in their speech as he innovated. He couldn’t do it anymore. This was his life, his journey, and, starting today, he was beginning his legacy!

He pulled his pipe from one of his many pockets in his waistcoat, packing it with leaves from another pocket. He took a moment to stare at the landscape before running his thumb under the heel of the pipe. “Solas.” He whispered, and instantly the pipe ignited with a burst of flame; he quickly recoiled, avoiding his beard from being set alight. Panic filled his face as he blew out the fire. As the smoke steadily rose from the bowl, he patted it lightly with his callused fingertips, ensuring the leaves were burning evenly. He nodded and placed the stem between his teeth, taking steady puffs. “Hmm… I need to adjust the power of that flame.” He talked to himself, “Or less my beard will become a singed nubbin!” He gave a little chuckle, continuing on his way.

***

Jorund walked until nightfall, and he was exhausted by such time! He was not used to walking such distances, and his top-heavy frame did not help his waning legs. He was surrounded by trees and could see no clearing. Even though he was accustomed to dark surroundings, which gave him excellent vision in low lighting, he was drained. His stomach kept making sounds, letting him know it was time to stop for food, if nothing else! Jorund kicked about the forest floor, ensuring he had found flat ground to settle for the night. Satisfied, he removed his poleaxe, laying it on the floor with care, took off his backpack and began setting up camp for the evening.

Fortunately, Jorund already had food to last him at least a couple of days, as he had no energy left for hunting. Gradually, he made a fire and reheated his moobeast stew as he lay out his bed for the evening. So ravenous was his hunger, he gulped down his stew, making it last mere seconds, before burping and feeling the heaviness of fatigue push him to his temporary bed. Jorund saw no point in keeping himself awake for any longer than he had to. So, he lay down and, pulling the sheets over himself, he closed his eyes.

However, sleep was not about to find him so easily! He readjusted his blanket several times, first with his beard covered, then with one arm out of the covering, then back in, before feeling a breeze on his foot, quickly retreating to the warmth of his sheeting. He sighed and began to relax, but then his head on a rock he had set as a pillow felt uncomfortable; he moved it to the left, then the right, before setting it back to its original position. He smiled, resting his head, but with all of his movement, the bed sheet was no longer in a comfortable layout. He sighed, frustrated, readjusting himself once more. “Finally!” He breathed, closing his eyes and allowing himself time to relax. Although the sounds of the forest, the inconsistent owl hoot, the breaking of twigs from animals walking about, and the cracking of trees swaying in the wind, span Jorund into a rage, interrupting his gradual nodding off, only to rudely wake him.

He sat up, frustrated, with a sigh, but as he gazed, sleepy-eyed, into the trees, he saw something staring back at him. He reached for his poleaxe, seeing the silhouette of something looking back at him. ‘Is that a woman…?’ He thought to himself, ‘No, too hairy… A werewolf, maybe.’ Suddenly, his hand gripped the handle of the weapon more tightly as his eyes enlarged. ‘What if it’s on heat!?’ Quickly, he lifted the poleaxe, tensing as the creature approached, but as it got closer, he saw that it was a deer. ‘Hmm, I could eat it,’ Jorund thought. Still, as he saw the animal sitting hesitantly by the fire, shivering, he left it be, feeling sympathy for the creature. “You can stay by the fire if you like, Mr Deer.” The animal appeared to nod towards him as thanks, before curling into a ball and falling asleep. It made Jorund smile to see the deer sleep so soundly. Gradually, he lay back down, and after half an hour of adjusting his sleeping position, he gently snored, finding his rest.

Some hours passed, but yet again, something woke Jorund from his slumber. He felt the unpleasant coldness greet his skin and a pressure pushing into the left of him. Confused if he was awake or asleep, he looked about himself, unsure. To his rage, he found the deer not only lying next to him, but it had also stolen his blanket. Quickly, he grabbed hold of the bed sheet, pulling it over himself and turning his back to the deer with a huff. The deer wasn’t about to give up, as it reached across him and, using its mouth, it tugged at the sheet. Feeling the material move, Jorund clutched the sheet once more, holding it firm, but the deer was not about to give up. And so Jorund sat in a tug of war with this animal, neither one about to relinquish the blanket, until a tearing sound burst into the calm night air. Both deer and Jorund looked at each other, stunned, seeing that the blanket had been torn into two. “Now look what you have done!” He shouted at the deer.

However, the deer seemed somewhat chuffed with its prize and pulled half of the blanket over itself. Again, Jorund huffed, rolling aggressively to his side and pulling what remained of his bedding over himself. “Stupid Mr Deer!” He hissed to himself.