The Book of the Doomed

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AND SO OUR GRANDMOTHERS WEPT
AS THEIR SONS AND HUSBANDS WENT

INTO WAITING JAWS OF DOOM

FROM BELOW, A BITTEN THUMB
FROM ABOVE, CAME MURDER'S SONS

WRETCHED BEASTS OF ASHEN WOMB

WE HELD OUR FALLEN FATHERS
BURIED OUR BROKEN BROTHERS

SWORE TO FILL A CROWDED TOMB

As the realm fell apart around him, as vaults were sealed and abandoned, as his people fled in shame or stood fast to die, there lingered an orphan prince; the third son of the High King Archaz. Upon the smoking slopes of Kulkund, the prince drove down his sword among the bones of the dead, and called for the Gods to witness his oath: that he would wreak terrible vengeance upon the Thousand Clans. He would answer their atrocities with a flame of bitterest hate. He would battle them. He would scourge them. He would hound them across the Ash until the dying of time.

He gathered the shattered remains of his kingdom's military, unbroken lords and loyal officers and kin mercenaries, and set south to the cradle lands of the foe. He founded there the great hold of Got Valdhazr. Its place was chosen with hands full of spite, fastening the stronghold to the face of the Murderer as though a weeping sore, there to make war upon the vile orcs, and to call them forth to be broken upon his mighty walls.

As the cornerstone was set, the orphan prince did vow:

"Let their Axes shatter upon the Stone! Let their teeth break upon the Stone! Let their blood water the Stone! Doom! Doom! Upon this Murderer, upon this Axe, a Curse for a thousand generations!"

For centuries, was this promise served by Got Valdhazr.

For centuries, was this war continued by Got Valdhazr.

Our people purchased the death of hundreds of orcs with each life given. And yet, we knew that our reckoning had no end but our own demise, for the multitudes of our enemy went on beyond any number. We dwindled with each generation. Time and ruin ground down our gatherings. Too few were we to patrol our deeps, so our keepers sealed the gates. Too few were we to people our homes, so our keepers filled them as crypts. Too few were we to traffic our streets, so our keepers paved them with pictures of heroes past.

To doom, we swore. To doom, we would go.

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ANCESTORS, HEAR NOW YOUR SONS

BAALERA, OUR HEARTHMAIDEN
VOUCHSAFE FAMILY AND HOME

IZZAKHAR, SAGE ERUDITE
EXTOL US WITHIN YOUR TOME

KARDUN, GREAT HIDDEN RIVER
NOURISH THE LIFE YOU HAVE BORNE

GALMOK, DAUNTLESS ENGINEER
SPARE US YOUR MAYHEM AND SCORN

WARAD, WISE WANDERER KIND
WALK ONWARD WITH US A TIME

KALI, GALI, SHEPHERDS TRUE
LEAD US TO GARDENS SUBLIME

UMBUR, COMES NOW THE EARTHQUAKE
ENACT THROUGH US JUSTICE WRIT

COORDUM, HEINOUS MURDERER
UPON YOUR FOUL NAME WE SPIT

Before the small people of the Ash learned civilization, when still they were squabbling barbarians who worshiped animal idols, before the coming of Marib, before the founding of the Caliphate, the vast Empire of Greater Kulkund already stood proud and old. In these before times, the greatest of our forefathers still lived and breathed as mortal kin: the Ancestor Gods.

The Ancestor Gods, who watch over us still, wielded the deep magic to craft a sacred Wheel, engraved their names upon it, and set it in motion to travel the roads of time. Still they roam. Still they learn and judge and act. Each, a great paragon of our race, though some great and terrible in equal measure. All are revered, but for the murderous traitor Coordum (spit upon his name), who has taken to an unclean love of the orcs over his own people, who shall instead be scorned for his honorless depravity across all the long ages to come.

It became custom, in the time of the Empire, for each lineage of the Ancestor Gods to form a caste. These castes would aspire to continue the righteous work of their grandfathers, so that all might prosper. For thousands of years, this orthodoxy served us well, and we flourished in number and wealth. However, those very riches were our undoing. Our times of plenty made us complacent, which gave way to hubris, which gave way to misrule.

It became custom, in the time of the Empire, to accept no charity. Donations between castes became the gravest mark of dishonor, shaming both the recipient and their Ancestors before them, for it implied the humiliation that what the Ancestors gave us, what they taught us, was not enough for that craven beggar. We understood that we were above such degradation. We resolved as a people never to stomach the insult of a gift freely given. We would answer with equal payment, always, in every matter.

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The names, faces, and lives of a myriad of dwarves are recorded here, across an impossible number of pages...

...ending with a handful of recent entries...

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THE AGES CHANGE
NO HAMMERS FALL

DARK OMENS REIGN
IN EMPTY HALLS
IN EMPTY HALLS

THE FIRE DIES
THE HEARTH GROWS COLD

A PALLOR LIES
ON CRUMBLING HOLD

FOR VANITY
WE SPURN OUR FATE

OUR DOOM HAS COME
THE HOUR IS LATE

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