The Journal of Turri and Yurri
The Makings of a Dwarrow
Entry Six Hundred and Seventy Seven
Yurri's edit: The first.
Much idle text, between the beginning and the now. Father's work. Relevance did not come soon enough.
The year is TA 2769, well within the passing of Durin's Day, and the Longbeards thrive at full strength within the halls of Erebor, home of my kin, and Kingdom of the Dwarves. Far too the East we stand, the Lonely Mountain a hundred leagues from any mountain range, yet not so lonely are we. The town city of Dale, sits idly upon our southern bank, inhabited by men folk and visited on occasion by my people, the Dwarves. I grieve for this state of affairs, for though Erebor has become filthy rich in trade and it's own prosperities, a sickness plagues through our halls. Specifically, my own.
Dale is a city Father. Though my correction is useless, for your old eyes will never see the words inscribed upon the parchment.
Yes, a great sickness indeed. I do not speak of the rumours surrounding our highly esteemed, King under the Mountain, King Thror, but rather my petulant son Yuri. Yurri. Many times of late, the last of my line has fled the city in the company of trade caravans, travelling circuses and unbareable troops of actors, all to acquire merry entry into the men-folk town of Dale. Not once has he looked upon the halls of his fathers with hope or home in his heart. Never what lies within our great doors, but beyond. Rhovanion. A vast realm full to the brim with people, not our own.
Erebor had cursed me. And I it. Much did I lose there. Before and after the flame.
Drunk he was, not three nights ago! In to my chamber he stumbled, requesting more of my gold for his next outing. A way with words he always had, spinning them like a spider would a web. “Yurri” I told him, “I will not feed this addiction of yours. It is a poison! The way rot festers upon an open wound”. I did not expect a simple "Feck you" by his response. It was very much unlike him. And so the gold disappeared into grubby hand, and I had come to father what mirrored the characteristics of a young fire drake. Or as many would simply refer to him as, a thief with a nasty bite.
I was young. Distraught. The drinking hit me hard. Not as hard as the news that caused it.
I shall not speak too ill of him, though I equally refuse to speak ever higher! Turri Bronzebreaker I was and am, earning titles, gold and trinket. All to be given to Yuri Yurri upon the moment of my passing, a day for him no doubt, greater than any Durin's Day to be ever had. Through decades of wading through blood blacker than the night sky, or even the darkest cavern, it grieves me so deeply to see my own line fall into the hands of my son. My frequently absent, pathetic in pain, gentle hearted, stealing, drinking to forget and never to enjoy, son. These are not the traits of the common Dwarf, nor is he. A disgrace to my heritage, a disgusting addition to our kind, and lacking the true makings of a Dwarrow. I shall make note to remind him with every passing day.
And so he did.
