A history written for my newest DnD character, and thus also, for a change, written in the first person. It is also heavily biased, and not an accurate portrayal of Enlyan history.
Long ago, the dwarven society in the Yaughrrinn peaks thrived upon the earnings of metal working. Located in the mountains just without the borders of a major Enlyan trading hub, we made more than a tidy profit off of selling plate mail and iron swords to unversed eager adventurers. This, though, was only the very base of our work. What we truly prided ourselves on, what we cared for and loved, were the metallic artworks we created. Each blade, helm, and breastplate we crafted shone with the vibrancy of our hearty dwarven forge. The metal works that came down from the Yaughrrinn peaks were more than tools– they were entire histories inscribed into steel. We embodied the ideal dwarven society, and our kinsmen looked up to us as much as dwarven kinsmen can.
I was born far after this time though. Good things never last long. Enlyera’s worldly king renounced the throne, leaving a brash elven nobleman to succeed him. The elves have always thought themselves superior to us– to everyone. They believe their fey blood gives them the right to act as if they are gods. They aren’t though. No, they aren’t anything damned near to gods. The elf boy, Reluin, forced us into our mountains, imprisoning those who ventured down into the cities to trade. We lost dozens of our clan to the tyrant, and never will we forget it. Even ensuing the end of his reign, our people were too afraid to face the outside world. Too long had we been locked away for even our dwarven resilience to preserve our pride and determination. For a society that values the bonds of kinship so highly, the losses we suffered became a wound in us that may never heal.