The Promethean Crown
The crags and caves and fissure-split slopes of the Min’lands are home to the hardy descendants of the ancient Dwarven tribes of the Moontops. Here, so far from their glowing alabaster halls, the remnants of Tur and Omz and Gyt, and of the tribe of Ulz, found solid rock that could carry the dead into the dream world of their creation. Seeking the heart of a great vein of basalt, they found their way accross rivers of iron, and threads of gold and silver cris-crossing their path. They opened caverns unseen and fought off the shadows and the mad immortal creatures that had been trapped there by unimaginable forces long evaporated into the eaons night.
And yet, as ever, those who survived persisted, carving day by day, pick-blow by pick-blow, hammer by mallet, hand by iron-hard hand. The tribes persisted, and over the years, the fresh settlers of the Eastern lands wondered if the Dwarven tribes had been eaten inside the black-earth into which they had disappeared. Only rarely did they hear the whispered rumors of Dwarves…a cloaked boy of stout stature perhaps, surely not a Dwarf. A fat Goblin, it must have been…Dwarves haven’t been seen for a ten years!
And then, suddenly, the Dwarven city of Oru appeared along the Eastern Way canal, and a legendary trading city was born. the Dwarves, it seemed, had found their Ott Varn, their holy city which had haunted their dreams over so many countless centuries past. A great pillar of Obsidian deep within the mountains, in which all the dead could be interred, to dream once again.