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| - The tragic history of the Àraidhe has never been written by hand, as no written language exists for these people. Passed from mother to daughter, father to son, generation to generation, the tales of their glory and downfall are a reminder for all of the folly of their ways. Their vast empire rose to greatness long before the sinking of Hy-Brasyl. Strangely enough, soon after the sinking of Hy-Brasyl, Who are these enigmatic creatures you may ask? To Aislings and Mundanes alike, they are known as Dwarves. Dwarves are a subrace of the fae, and servants of the element of earth. Their never satisfied hunger for riches keeps them deep below the surface of the world, near the bounties of the earth. Some dwarves never see the light of day, toiling endlessly to recover precious gems and metals. Long ago, the Dwarven empire stretched all along the Spine of the World. In Àraidhe terms, the Spine of the World is the mountain range which stretches from the fertile valley of Suomi, to the entrance of the Kasmunium Mine. From the center of the mountains, the Dwarven Thanes, or Tòise ichean as they’re called in the Old Tongue, ruled over their empire for a millenium. Staying deep within the bowels of the mountains, the dwarves rarely ventured from the deep, never leaving the treasures of the earth. Perhaps, looking back with the wisdom of hindsight, the dwarves would be a power today if they had stayed in isolation. Of course, hindsight can be a teacher of bitter lessons. With the battle between light and dark ravaging on the outer world, some inside the empire were concerned. Debates raged amongst the Dwarves. The consensus of the population was to stay out of it, leaving the affairs of humans to the humans. Once again, in hindsight, that probably would have been the wisest decision. But the river of history took a different branch, a raging torrent headed for ruin. Months past by, and word of the struggle on the surface trickled to nothingness. Disturbingly though, any word from the surface stopped. Concerned, High Thane Thorin sent messengers to the Court of Loures. Sent with the promise of trade, the primary, secret mission of the messengers were to analyze the situation, and report back. Weeks passed, and no sign nor word of the messengers were seen. Worried for the safety of his people, the Thane increased patrols along the outskirts of his Kingdom, leaving strict orders to immediately report anything out of the ordinary. After a week, reports began flooding in. Strange creatures were lurking on the outskirts of the mountains, destroying anything in their path. Enraged, the High Thane marshalled his army, a legion of dwarven warriors a thousand strong. On a clear day in the midst of winter, the dwarven army poured out of the mountain, war cries fierce for their fallen brothers. Perhaps, if the Thane had not acted so hastily, the dwarves would have been better prepared for the calamity that ensued. A days march away from his kingdom, the army of the Thane was ambushed by creatures of Darkness. In his tent, the Thane awakened to shrieks of terror unlike any he had ever heard before. Unsheathing his sword, he rushed out of his tent, and was amazed by the horror before his eyes. There, standing in malevolent glory, stood a pack of Succubi, gleefully ripping dwarves in two as if they were mere twigs. Fear smothered the encampment like a heavy blanket, smothering those caught beneath it. The death chants of hundreds of dwarves echoed through the night, gruesomely matched with the screams of the dying and the breaking of bones. Swarms of small four-legged creatures infested the camp, feasting upon the dead. With a cry, the Thane charged the nearest Succubus, sword singing into the air. His blade bit deep into the creature’s back, severing a wing. Enraged, the Succubus turned, tossing aside the hapless dwarf she had been tearing in two. A wave of fear slammed into the Thane, as he stared into the face of death. Screeching, the Succubus launched herself at the Thane, claws reaching for his throat. As he watched death come for him, he kneeled to the ground, sword facing up. The impact jarred him, wrenching the sword from his grasp. Tumbling to the ground, he rolled to his side. To his amazement, the Succubus lay next to him, eyes dark. Pulling himself to his feet, he searched for his sword, and found it buried deep within the center of the Succubus. Black ichor pooled on the ground around the prone form of the evil temptress. Grabbing his sword, and heaving mightily, he pulled the sword from the body. Breathing heavily, he turned and surveyed the scene. All around him, lay the unmoving forms of his people and the foul blackness of the fallen Dubhaimid. The silence of the night pounded in his ears. Looking up to the sky, upon the serene cloudlessness, he wept. It was then, that he saw the smoke furling in the sky, a malevolent blackness... Centered over the mountains. Screaming in agony, he ran for what seemed like an eternity. Near sunrise, he arrived at the main gate of the mountain. The land was covered with the ashen remains of Dubhaim and the twisted remains of the Homeguard. From the wrecked doors of the gate, smoke still poured out as if a raging fire burned within the heart of the mountain. Weeping horribly, the last Thane of the last Dwarven dynasty pulled his sword from his sheath, kneeled to the ground, and impaled himself upon it. Many a season has passed since that day. The might of the Dwarven empire had faded into the river of time, their power and accomplishments forgotten. To this day, the only Dwarves left in the Eastern Lands are twisted creatures of darkness, which haunt the dungeon of Abel beach. Rumor has it that by the main entrance to the kingdom, at sunrise in the winter, a regal figure can be seen pacing back and forth, weeping. Weeping the tears of a lost empire, and of the folly of arrogance.
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