Somhairle Grumblespeak was born in Sundabar, a fortified city in northern Faerûn. Sundabar, was one of the wealthiest and most militaristic cities within the nation of Luruar, or all of Faerûn for that matter. Its harsh and treeless surface was surrounded by two ringed walls, surrounded by Tarnar's Moat, a water-filled trench that was rumored to be filled with man-eating eels. Within its walls, Sundabar's massive stone buildings were encircled by cobblestone streets, with no flora to be found save for the sparse window-box garden of fragrant herbs.
Somhairle's parents, Grimbold and Thorenna, were modest merchants who instilled in him a strong work ethic. His fascination with fire and metal led him to apprentice under Master Alabuth Helfyn at the renowned Old Anvil Smithy workshop. For years, he honed his blacksmithing skills, specializing in crafting caltrops for the Shieldsar. The Shieldsar was the standing army of the city of Sundabar.
As Somhairle's skills improved, so did his taste for ale. He frequented Halabar's Horn of Spirits, a seedy bar on Lanthalar Street, where the patrons were as rough as the furniture. Somhairle's love for stories, laughter, and camaraderie often clouded his judgment, leading him to spend more nights (and coins) than he should have.
One fateful night, a charismatic rogue named Harlan convinced Somhairle to join a motley crew on an adventuring charter into the Underdark. The promise of riches and glory blinded Somhairle to the dangers. The group consisted of:
• Harlan, the human rogue • Trisrel, the elf ranger • Roderick, the human fighter • Ilihorn, the elf wizard • Somhairle, the dwarf fighter
The expedition ended in catastrophe. Ambushed by drow, Somhairle's companions fell, and he was taken captive.
Somhairle spent a decade as a slave to the dark elves, forced to toil in the depths of the Underdark. He witnessed unspeakable horrors and suffered physical and emotional torment. His once-strong spirit began to break.
Somhairle's escape was not a heroic feat. He simply stumbled upon an unguarded passage while on a work detail. Seizing the opportunity, he fled, leaving behind the darkness that had consumed him.
Returning to Sundabar, Somhairle found the city changed, yet familiar. The Old Anvil Smithy still stood, Master Alabuth continued his smithing, keeping up with the demand for the popular caltrops. Halabar's Horn of Spirits remained, its decrepit state a testament to the passage of time. However, many of the familiar faces Somhairle once knew had given way to new ones.
Somhairle wandered Sundabar, haunted by memories of his past. His skills as a blacksmith remain, but his heart was heavy. He seeked redemption, hoping to rebuild his life and find purpose. The echoes of his slavery still lingered, making trust a luxury he could not afford. Ten years of slavery under the drow had left emotional scars, and his trust in non-dwarves had withered like the city's winter snow. He yearned for the comfort of his own kind, a place to call home.
Stories of Clan Horn's legendary stronghold, Horn Enclave, in the Nether Mountains, echoed in his mind. A bastion of dwarven resilience, where tradition and honor stood strong. Somhairle set his sights on finding refuge within the clan's sturdy walls.
After several days of travel, Somhairle arrived at Horn Enclave, nestled within the mountains' rugged embrace. The imposing gates, adorned with the Horn clan crest, swung open to reveal a bustling community. Over a hundred dwarves, nearly half of whom were battle-hardened guards, called this stronghold home.
Somhairle sought out the clan leader, Zardak Horn. The elder dwarf's piercing gaze assessed Somhairle's weathered face and worn leather armor.
"What brings you to Clan Horn, Somhairle Grumblespeak?" Zardak asked, his voice like the mountains themselves.
Somhairle shared his tale of slavery and loss, his voice cracking with emotion. Zardak listened intently, his expression unreadable.
"We'll take you in, Somhairle," Zardak declared. "But prove yourself worthy. Work in our forge, and demonstrate your loyalty. You'll find no charity here, only the respect of your kin."
Somhairle threw himself into his work, hammering hot metal into fine blades and sturdy armor. The rhythmic clangs of the forge soothed his troubled mind, and the camaraderie of his fellow dwarves slowly chipped away at his mistrust.
Occasional skirmishes with hobgoblins, orcs, and verbeeg tested Somhairle's mettle. Somhairle stood alongside Clan Horn's guards, defending the stronghold with growing confidence. His battle-axe, forged in the very depths of the enclave, became an extension of himself.
Twice, the sturdy walls of Horn Enclave shook beneath the thunderous roar of Roraurim, a blue dragon of legendary ferocity. Somhairle stood among the defenders as the dragon's claws scraped against the stronghold's unyielding stone. Both times, Clan Horn's unwavering resolve and Somhairle's battle-axe proved unbreachable, sending Roraurim soaring back into the Nether Mountains, its pride wounded but its fury unrelenting.
Zardak recognized Somhairle's growth and entrusted him with specialized tasks. He assisted in crafting intricate locks for the vaults, which housed ancient relics and treasures beyond measure.
As seasons passed, Somhairle's sense of belonging deepened. Clan Horn became his family, and Horn Enclave, his sanctuary. Though the shadows of his past still lingered, Somhairle Grumblespeak finally found solace among his kin.
In the evenings, as the sun dipped behind the Nether Mountains, Somhairle would sit by the forge, listening to the clan's tales of old. His eyes would wander to the vaults, wondering what secrets lay hidden beneath the stronghold's sturdy foundations.
One day, a hooded figure arrived at Horn Enclave, seeking audience with Zardak. Whispers spread of a looming threat, one that would require Clan Horn's unwavering resolve.
Somhairle's instincts stirred, his grip on his battle-axe tightening. The shadows of his past might yet return, but this time, he stood ready, alongside his brothers and sisters of Clan Horn.
