Scribe 271
Lost in the sprawling corridors of Dath’ryn’vale, our small fellowship of adventurers have become completely separated from the very person they had agreed to escort…
Is it my fault? Did I cause this? Hmmf!
Well- I guess we’ll show them what happens when you leave your narrator behind!
This story begins long ago, so long in fact, that even -I- have a hard time remembering all the details, and I lived it!
That’s right, this is the tale of one Dandolhoff Macgurdy!
You see I was born short for a dwarf. And really, I should say right out of the gate, that such a thing is never okay, to say about a dwarf… descendants of giants and all that. But once again, I lived it; it’s about me, it’s my truth… But being the ‘runt of the litter’, was by far, the least of my worries. You see, not only have I had a damned cane from the moment of my first step, but also, this rather useless arm that curls close to my chest.
Suffice it to say, all the other children left me out of those ‘childhood games’. All I had was a rather soft-spoken mum, and an overly boisterous father. All she said was hum-de-hum as she waddled about the house dusting things, and me pa, well, he was the one to name me ‘Wee Mack’, and he was mostly just interested in grabbing her behind.
You live, you learn… you find something else to do.
For example, the rather extensive library built by our beloved King Mathar’s father, the late King Haggar the Wise, oh some five hundred years before I came around. This is where I went to spend my young years. The books didn’t call me names, and they had plenty more to say than hum-de-hum.
The library was where the Sages dwell, they were ever so eager for dwarves to actually use the old tomes. Dwarves, for the most part, were a bit too busy working. I found the time for resting and reading and I never once regretted it. Even so, the life of a dwarf is a life full of work– hard work. And it was just a matter of time ’til I joined my brethren.
For the most part, as a dwarf in our society, you became an apprentice- to, well, something.
Anything, really.
Blacksmithing, a popular one. Or Mining, cuz well it’s what dwarves do. Sure, there were always a need for tailors and weavers, and just about anything that was needed… there was some Master at it. Thus, some way you could find your way to an apprenticeship.
Well, young Dandolhoff Macurdy, born small and broken, had a hard time finding his way. Miners scoffed, and Blacksmiths howled at the thought of training the Wee Mack. Threading a needle took two hands, he was told- ever so softly.
You see there was a time when Dandolhoff believed everything he was told. They told him what he could and what he couldn’t… as they were all told by those who came before. Anyone outside of that—just didn’t exist, not that he knew.
Wee Mack found himself back in that library. Back where things he was told, had nothing to do with his limitations. He could have studied the histories, maybe even pursued arithmetic- while of course I am not going to say, of myself, that ‘I am not that smart’- Instead I’ll say, as we all, at some time do, ‘it simply was not where my interests lie’.
He found himself immersed in tales. Made up stories- meant to tell you something, someone needed to learn or hear- the things that just didn’t pop up for everyone. ‘The Ghost of the Past’, was the name of it. Of the story that, at last, he could relate to. A tale that first suggested, maybe he need not be told what he can or can not do. Maybe he should decide for himself, of his own capabilities. He gobbled the story up; he changed his ways. Defiantly he re-immersed himself in this quest for an apprenticeship.
Dwarves lived long lives, all the time they ever needed to become the master of their own chosen profession, but they were set and stubborn in their ways. So much so, that in all those years, never would they learn to just back off and give a little. They were hard to change; as solid as the stone– was the measure of their stubbornness. Each with its own un-budging opinion on how things were, and how they were meant to be. And anyone that said any different, well, they finally got a chance to be shown just how stubborn a dwarf can be.
Mack was familiar, and became ever so much more familiar, as his quest for acceptance, had led him nose to nose with the immovable. Again and again, he was blocked; flat, held in his place. Nowhere to go.
A pile of stone stood before the Wee Mack, and probably would have stayed that way, til he realized one thing! He realized he was one of the stones- and he did not need to move either.
Finally he shook his fist and he said, “Listen Ma, listen Pa- I’m going to do what I do, and its -yous- that’s going to have to accept what I can or cannot do!”
His Ma hum-de-hummed softly and his father, the master blacksmith, let out another howl.
Mack was a dwarf too! He could be as stubborn as any. He didn’t need two good legs, he didn’t need two arms, he didn’t need to scrape his head on the ceiling– to be the descendant of a giant. All he had to be was himself. Through this, and this alone, did the stone find its place in the pile.
To make his point, of course, one job would never do, everyone had to see the truth.
Mack the Miner forced a pickaxe deep into the stone, ’til he had his fill of ore. (Just enough really.)
Mack the Blacksmith swung a hammer over the heat of a forge, long enough to craft that ore into the most magnificent sewing needle any had ever seen.
Mack the Tailor learned to make his own clothes ‘til- well, it really is quite a handy skill- even to this day.
Even as he did each of these vocations, he found himself, hunched over a desk at the end of each day, writing of all his exploits.
For the more he lived, the more ideas seemed to build up…
He thought he wanted to forge metal, he wanted to break the stone… but really, that was what they told him he wanted.
Ultimately, what Mack the Writer was studying, all those years, was how to write it all down.
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