khazadweek

[khazadweek]

in their halls of stone || Chapter 7: Diamond

part of Heirlooms

A history of the Dwarven-Rings: from their gifting to the Kings of the Seven Clans, through the bellies of dragons, and into Sauron’s grasp. Chapter 7: The Diamond Ring of the Stonefoots.

Here is my final (belated) entry for @khazadweek Day 7: Stonefoots! This fic is now COMPLETE at 12k words!! Chapter 7 is perhaps the grisliest yet, and it doesn’t even have any dragons…

START AT CHAPTER 1!

chapter 7 notes:

Rating: M | Major Character Death | Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationships: Túvon & Chayalor (OC), Zakhnab (OC)/Drasír (OC) & Khundda (OC), Zakhnab (OC) & Túvon, Sauron & Túvon, Sauron & Nazgûl Characters: Chayalor (OC; Stonefoot King), Túvon, Zakhnab (OC; Stonefoot King), Drasír (OC; Zakhnab’s wife), Khundda (OC; Stonefoot Prince), Sauron, Nazgûl Word count: 1.7k

READ CHAPTER 7 ON AO3!

#day 7 #writing #stonefoots #<3

[khazadweek]

Khazad week 2022 is officially over (We will of course still gladly accept any late submissions so don't worry about unfinished work)!

Thank you everyone who participated! It was a lot of fun and we loved seeing everyone's writing, edits, and art! It was great seeing all of your hard work. We are planning to have a Khazad week in 2023, so we will see you next year.

Thank you!

#🥰🫶💐

[khazadweek]

in their halls of stone || Chapter 6: Opal

part of Heirlooms

A history of the Dwarven-Rings: from their gifting to the Kings of the Seven Clans, through the bellies of dragons, and into Sauron’s grasp. Chapter 6: The Opal Ring of the Blacklocks.

Belated entry for @khazadweek​ Day 6: Stiffbeards! ft. a snake Maia to rival Sauron, yet another dragon, and some unfortunate elf OCs.

START AT CHAPTER 1!

chapter 6 notes:

Rating: M | Major Character Death | Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationships: Túvon & Sauron, Sauron & Halakhund II (OC) & Chayalor (OC), Sûkhor (OC) & Lorekh | Thirristiel (OC), Tirdis (OC) & Eredhnil (OC) Characters: Túvon, Sauron, Halakhund II (OC; Blacklock King), Chayalor (OC; Stonefoot King), Sûkhor (OC; Blacklock King), Lorekh | Thirristiel (Dragon OC), Tirdis (Silvan OC), Eredhnil (Silvan OC), Malweth (Silvan OC), Thúlivren (OC; Queen of Mirkwood), Hildr (OC; Woodwoman) Word count: 3k

READ CHAPTER 6 ON AO3!

#day 6 #blacklocks #writing

[khazadweek]

the petty dwarves and the forest elves

written for khazad week day 7, for the prompt “folkore and myths”. a third age dwarven fairytale.

do i think the hunted petty dwarves were eaten? not sure. do i think the dwarves think they were? absolutely.

Long before the Sun and the Moon were young, the first of our forefathers awakened. And after they awakened, they multiplied and formed the seven great clans that stand strong even today. Longbeards, Blacklocks, and Firebeards; Broadbeams, Ironfists, Stiffbeards, and Stonefoots.

Keep reading

#day 7 #folklore #writing

[khazadweek]

#KhazadWeek Day 7

Day 7: Stonefoots, Diversity and Folklore & Myths

I haven't been able to do the other prompts this week because of time constraints, but ended up doing all the prompts for the last day in one go!

--

It wasn’t typical for Ajin to stay out of the limelight when a party was in full swing, but here he was, trying his best to blend into the corner. He felt his heart beat faster inside his ribcage and he tried to hold his breath, letting it out slowly after a few moments to quell his rising anxiety.

So many people were here, and he’d seen so many new things on his journey from Harabza, the Stonefoot halls, to Minas Tirith. Gondor was a place as foreign to him as the other side of the world, but at least dwarven travellers to Ered Luin or even those that took the shorter roadway north-west to Erebor had their own kind to mingle with and a sense of familiarity once they reached the Longbeards. Here in the kingdom of Men, there was no such solace. He remembered when he had arrived a few days ago with the dwarven wagon train, and the curious eyes that gazed from every street corner and building. Some were friendly, old men remembering, perhaps, the times when as boys they had welcomed dwarves into the city, or children laughing and screaming as they ran alongside the wagons, waving up at him raucously. Others less so.

Go back to your own kind, Southron, someone had hissed at him, though he had been conversing with another dwarf and had only half-heard the muttered curse. As soon as he had turned his head, the person who had spoken had melted away into a crowd of Men, where they all looked the same. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. Southron, Easterling. To the Men of Gondor, those from the East were all the same, and he had both terms thrown at him by drunken warriors who lounged, broken from battle, outside taverns, or younger veterans who had lost blood-brothers in the war. To them, with his braided and shaved black hair that fell to his elbows, dark brown skin etched with striking red-ink tattoos, and the glimmering array of gold rings set in his lips and nose, an Eastern dwarf was no better than those who had served Sauron. Ajin spoke little Westron, but he understood enough to know he wasn’t welcome. At least those of the zulmâ-khazâd were treated with the respect that artisans, craftsdwarves, engineers and masons deserved.

For the most part, he ignored the comments directed towards him and the few Eastern dwarves who had journeyed at Gimli’s behest to help restore Minas Tirith to its former glory. Gimli he knew — his mother was a family friend, her sister marrying one of his uncles over a hundred years ago, and Gimli had visited Harabza where he had been instructed on some of the finer techniques of preparing vorn, the granite-hard, obsidian substance only native to some of the mountains and hills in the far south of the kingdom. It was for this reason that Gimli had chosen Ajin. Guarded by a garrison of Stonefoot mercenaries and weighing several tonnes, a king’s ransom of the precious eastern metal had been procured by King Elessar to build into the gates of the city and construct several major fortifications. Ajin’s eyes watered when he thought about the price.

At least his hosts had been gracious enough. The King had shown customary dwarven respect and could get by in khuzdul, and the house-keepers for the lodgings they had been provided hadn’t commented on Ajin’s appearance, even if they kept their thoughts to themselves. “Ignore them, Aji. Our way of life and theirs — we cannot compare them. Dwarves and Men are as different as rats and salamanders,” remarked Kurin one evening, a slow-voiced, tall Ironfist dwarf, who, with his rich ebony colouring and wild beard, had got his own share of frightened looks. He was the youngest foregemaster in Nazbukhrin, and had been part of the elite team to craft His Majesty the King of Nazbukhrin’s new axe. To Men, just another Easterner.

Ajin reminded himself this as he watched the Men in the guest-hall dancing, laughing and talking together. A few of them he’d made polite conversation with, but Kurin’s words kept coming back to him. As different as rats and salamanders. Don’t expect them to comprehend you. That was easily done though, as Ajin could only nod politely, and stutter a few words of Westron here and there. Mostly though, he kept himself to the other dwarves and to his drink.

“A fine evening, master dwarf.” Ajin looked around at the speaker, sighing through his nose and steeling himself for another conversation. “Yes. A good evening—” His voice trailed off as he looked upwards. And upwards. Something tall and thin was leaning against a marble column in front of him, a glass of wine in one hand, and smiling down at him. He blinked, trying to remove the apparition from his vision, and his fingers made the sign of the hammer inside of his pocket. He knew what the creature was, but not how it had appeared in Minas Tirith. After a few moments, the being frowned and pushed itself off from the wall. Ajin backed away. “Come no closer, inuk,” Ajin said, holding up the amulet he had worn around his neck since he left Harabza. It had the three-fingered hand on it, reaching outwards to ward against spirits. The inuk — for in Stonefoot legend, that is what this apparition could only be — looked confused and sipped at its drink. Do the inuk drink? At festivals he left red-coloured beverages at the Temple and at the windows of his house in offerings to appease them, but he’d never seen one in person. They preferred to inhabit the dream-land, the world between life and death. “I am no inuk, master dwarf, though I do not know of what it is that you speak,” the creature bowed low from the waist, and then placed its drink to one side on a ledge. “I am called Galdir, of the Woodland Realm, now Eryn Lasgalen in our tongue.” Ajin looked blankly up at Galdir. As far as he could remember, the inuk were not named. “An elf,” Galdir continued, raising its eyebrows slightly. “I am not sure if you have been acquainted to my kind before?” “Alves?” asked Ajin, once his head had gotten around the fact that Galdir was not, in fact, a spirit from the other side. “Elves,” corrected Galdir. “We are those that were created first by Illuvatar, who walked the world first before Men and Dwarves awoke.” “Oh!” exclaimed Ajin, recognising the story at once. “But… elves do not look… like you.” He was having a hard time explaining himself and felt his cheeks flush. In Stonefoot tales, the firstborn children of the One God were forest-dwelling giants, with dark blue and green-hued skin. Their hair was mossy, their teeth like chunks of stone, and limbs as strong and as knotted as great oak-trunks. Galdir was sprightly and slight, and his skin no more green than Ajin’s. Common sense and politeness, however, made Ajin think that to mention this wasn’t the best use of his limited words. “And what do we look like, to the dwarves far to the East?” Galdir asked, smiling brightly. “It does not matter. Seems our tales are… mixed up,” Ajin confessed. He bowed in return and stepped forwards. “Ajin, son of Ibural. At your service.” For good measure, however, his fingers still rested lightly upon the amulet around his neck. He wasn’t taking any chances.

#day 7 #diversity #stonefoots #folklore #❤️❤️

[khazadweek]

@khazadweek day seven | folklore & myths | the fates of galadriel’s gift to gimli

          ‘And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?’ said Galadriel, turning to Gimli.           ‘None, Lady,’ answered Gimli. ‘It is enough for me to have seen the Lady of the Galadhrim, and to have heard her gentle words.’            ‘Hear all ye Elves!’ she cried to those about her. ‘Let none say again that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious! Yet surely, Gimli son of Glóin, you desire something that I could give? Name it, I bid you! You shall not be the only guest without a gift.’            ‘There is nothing, Lady Galadriel,’ said Gimli, bowing low and stammering. ‘Nothing, unless it might be - unless it is permitted to ask, nay, to name a single strand of your hair, which surpasses the gold of the earth as the stars surpass the gems of the mine. I do not ask for such a gift. But you commanded me to name my desire.’            The Elves stirred and murmured with astonishment, and Celeborn gazed at the Dwarf in wonder, but the Lady smiled. ‘It is said that the skill of the Dwarves is in their hands rather than in their tongues,’ she said; ‘yet that is not true of Gimli. For none have ever made to me a request so bold and yet so courteous. And how shall I refuse, since I commanded him to speak? But tell me, what would you do with such a gift?’            ‘Treasure it, Lady,’ he answered, ‘in memory of your words to me at our first meeting. And if ever I return to the smithies of my home, it shall be set in imperishable crystal to be an heirloom of my house, and a pledge of good will between the Mountain and the Wood until the end of days.’            Then the Lady unbraided one of her long tresses, and cut off three golden hairs, and laid them in Gimli’s hand. ‘These words shall go with the gift,’ she said. ‘I do not foretell, for all foretelling is now vain: on the one hand lies darkness, and on the other only hope. But if hope should not fail, then I say to you, Gimli son of Glóin, that your hands shall flow with gold, and yet over you gold shall have no dominion.’

—The Fellowship of the Ring, “Farewell to Lórien”

#day 7 #folklore #Gimli #edits

[khazadweek]

a bunch of half-done things for khazadweek day 7... my lesbian dwarrowdam OCs, a dwarf with a sparkly eye replacement, and something that was supposed to be an illustration of a dwarvish fairytale. the very polite dwarf child lost in the woods during winter encounters a speaking fox, a speaking bear, and finally mysterious tall figure, that all give him directions on how to get back home, after asking the child for their assistance on a task. i might properly draw that sometime since i really like the concept but i kinda ran out of steam...

#dwarf women #diversity #folklore #day 7 #art

[khazadweek]

@khazadweek day six | music | lament for erebor

As they sang the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him, a fierce and a jealous love, the desire of the hearts of dwarves. Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick. He looked out of the window. The stars were out in a dark sky above the trees. He thought of the jewels of the dwarves shining in dark caverns.

—The Hobbit, “An Unexpected Party”

#day 6 #music #edits

[khazadweek]

@khazadweek day 4 | khazad-dûm

“Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone.”

#day 4 #Khazad dum #edits

[khazadweek]

khazad week day 6: spirituality & religion

i followed the prompt very loosely for this...what ive tried to depict is a lone dwarf watching the first sun rise (ever!) and the visual overload that must come along with the extreme light everywhere after living countless lives in a dusk/dawn atmosphere. the rising of the first sun likely was an important spiritual event for dwarven culture so ive decided to file it under this prompt 🫣

#day 6 #religion #art

[khazadweek]

Petty dwarves A late submission for Khazadweek day 3.

#day 3 #petty dwarves #❤️❤️❤️

[khazadweek]

in their halls of stone || Chapter 5: Amethyst

part of Heirlooms

A history of the Dwarven-Rings: from their gifting to the Kings of the Seven Clans, through the bellies of dragons, and into Sauron’s grasp. Chapter 5: The Amethyst Ring of the Stiffbeards.

For @khazadweek​ Day 5: Stiffbeards! ft. old friendships, new friendships, and dastardly dragons.

START AT CHAPTER 1!

chapter 5 notes:

Rating: M | Major Character Death | Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationships: Sauron & Audun III (OC), Gudbrand II (OC) & Rûvek III (OC), Aiwareiks (OC) & Hrímil Frostheart Characters: Audun III (OC; Stiffbeard King), Sauron, Sindri VI (OC; Stiffbeard King), Gudbrand II (OC; Stiffebard King), Rûvek III (OC; Ironfist King), Hrímil Frostheart (LOTRO), Aiwareiks (Nazgûl OC) Word count: 2k

READ CHAPTER 5 ON AO3!

#day 5 #stiffbeards #writing

[khazadweek]

Of Good Memory

For @khazadweek. The prompt about Dís took over my mind yesterday. With special thanks to @arofili!

----

Her name is honoured among and above the names of kings.

Ered Luin was too poor to attract a dragon, in the days when Thorin Oakenshield’s Company walked alone out of her gates of carved granite - lonesome, with all the pride and ambition of Dúrin’s Folk.

Dís made it so: all mining tunnels carefully monitored, and the trading quotas demanding. Let the wealth of the last Dwarven Kingdom flow from the mountain, in brooches and rings and safe-boxes! Let it pay for acorn flour, eggs and cured ham and succour. There was bread; there were hunting parties, and companies of travelling smiths, and enough food for five children born to the mountain every ten-year.

And there were songs! - Dwarrow songs, songs to make the hands itch for a hammer to work and a hammer for war, to sting the eyes with memory.

With an ear to the world and a heart of stone did Dis, daughter of Thraín second of his name, rule Ered Luin, as fortress and warehouse and last refuge. A city small and petty, to the eyes of the loremasters, and those few as ancient as the mountain. She had known precisely the cause and the wide-ranging cunning, when Gandalf the Grey cane to the mountain sky-people named Ered Luin, speaking of riddles and presenting her father's inheritance as enticement, a taunt, a bribe.

To the council of Guild-masters said she, the mountain's magistrate herself: Hearken to me, brothers, sisters, kin of flesh and stone! The elves have in the heart of their realm such a foe as cannot be defeated, and their master seeks to urge us to die for it ourselves.

To her eldest she said: Prince Dúrin-born, be bold and wise and do not hesitate your hand upon the blade! The die is cast, and you must cheat it, for Dís was a prince herself, and knew well princedom's foremost mastery, above ruling and smithing and woodcraft: cheating life out of death itself, and glory if life be forfeit.

To her youngest, the keen-eyed archer, she said also in secret, There is a shadow in the Wood, and I wish to know of it all that may be had, and bid him wariness and cunning if they should follow the Road through it.

But to her brother she said nought. Ever the hearts of Thraín's children were bare to one another, and never shrouded, though they might have wished for less truth, and more comfort.

Her name is in the prayers sang before the altars in the households of the Khazâd, over the gritty stonework of Eriador, the marble of Erebor, the dirt of exile. Glory and good memory to Dís daughter of Thraín! But Dís daughter of Thraín never returned to the mountain of her forefathers; she had Ered Luin for husband and wife, brother and son, and no lord among her people begrudged her claim.

So it is that Dís lies buried there, under the grey-black-flickering stone, entombed alone of all her kin: mighty in life, mighty in death, Mahal be her witness.

#wow!!! #day 4 #dis #dwarf women #writing

[khazadweek]

m o o n l i g h t

   ✩   chapter 09. counsel (preview)

@khazadweek​ day five  ✩  erebor // environment  ✩  [chapter 1]

✩✩✩

Thorin was awoken by a harsh rapping at his window. Grumbling, he rolled over to glare at whatever it was that had stirred him from an admittedly restless sleep.

It was a raven. Thorin glared at it for a moment—surely no message could be so important as to disturb the slumber of the king-to-be!—and then bolted upright as he recognized the sheen of the raven’s feathers.

“Inkeri,” he breathed, rushing to open the window without bothering to throw anything on over his underclothes.

The raven swooped in and perched on his chair by the fire. Thorin’s hands trembled as he untied the letter around her ankle, and he did not allow himself to think before tearing it open.

There, in Bilbo’s distinctive, decorative handwriting, was the response he had been waiting for with less patience than he wished to admit.

Dear Thorin, it began, and he smiled at the endearment.

          Or should I call you ‘Majesty’? No, I think ‘Thorin’ will have to do, for you are not, after all, my King. And King you shall certainly be, whatever it is that bothersome Council of yours decides! If they deny you your rightful title, after all the goblins and spiders you’ve killed to earn it, why I will have to write to them myself and give them a very stern talking-to.

Weiterlesen

#day 5 #erebor #environment #writing

[khazadweek]

playing soldiers

written for khazad week day 4 “khazad dum”. warnings for background character death, amputation and child abuse in the form of child combatants in war. i don’t know how dwarf ages work and at this point i’m too afraid to ask, but i envison dáin to be about 14 and glóin to be about 7 here.

summary: dáin is struggling to cope with his losses and responsibilities after the battle of azanulbizar, when he meets an even younger soldier.

Dáin awakens to the memory that his father is dead. His father is dead, slaughtered in front of him, and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills have no leader now but he. Dáin is not a grown dwarf. He does not know how to be a ruler. He does not even know how he is alive.

Dáin proves his youth by crying, alone, for his fallen father. 

***

Weiterlesen

#day 4 #khazad dum #writing

[khazadweek]

khazad week day 5: enviroment

the love legolas and gimli have for their surroundings is a very important character trait they share and showing eachother what they love most is an important pillar for their relationship 💚

#gimli #day 5 #art #environment

[khazadweek]

Queen Under the Mountain

Fandom: The Hobbit

Characters: Dis, Dain

Summary: Dain and Dis discuss the future ruling of Erebor. Dis struggles with her losses.

For @khazadweek day 5: “Erebor”! Thank you to the mods for putting this event together, it’s been great to see some more Dwarf content! This was a great idea (^・ω・^ )

Signy is Gloin’s wife/Gimli’s mother and @lesbianhaleth‘s OC!

AO3 (author’s notes here) | Pillowfort

___________________________________________________________

           He had offered her the crown.

            They sat on a cold stone bench on a flat stretch of rock jutting out from the mountain, with the winter wind rolling in and rouging her cheeks, making furious posies of Dáin’s perpetually red face, and he offered again.

            “It’s yours by rights, if you want it,” he admitted, which was more than she had expected from her cousin. “Tell the truth, I was surprised not to hear from you…”

            Dís did not respond. She had not responded to any of the letters that had reached her since Balin and Óin had returned to the Blue Mountains to tell the story of the quest for the Lonely Mountain. Weeks she’d had to consider what to say to him, convinced herself that when the time came it would just come to her—and now she sat on the mountainside of the home she’d lost and knew no more what to say than she had when she’d first opened the letter.

            “I have no heir,” she said simply, flatly, a hollow, thorned statement that echoed around inside her breast. There was a long stretch of silence where Dáin had at least grace enough not to suggest she could bear another.

            Fíli and Kíli had already been interred when the Dís’ travel party had finally arrived in Erebor. They had all paid their respects and Dís had cut her beard in mourning, and now the wind was chilly through the short hair on her chin. On the ground, a party was moving crates and chattels into the kingdom—thus far it had been a task relocating everyone in, but the upside was that there was plenty of space. Further in the distance were the ruins of Dale, which had been buzzing with Men making repairs when Dís’ and her companions had passed by, keeping far enough away not to converse.

            She heard Dáin take the breath to at length break the silence with the obvious solution to the heir issue, and she interrupted.

Keep reading

#dis #dain #day 5 #erebor #writing