Smedjohn König

Smedjohn's Journal: Rusthome

Emerging from the depths, the party arrives in Rusthome—the proud dwarven stronghold and Smedjohn König’s birthplace. He leads his companions through its grand halls, from the sacred Temple of Moradin to a quiet visit with his ailing brother, Thorhej.

Their journey ends at "The Cog and Keg," a lively tavern where ale flows as freely as stories. Amid laughter and forged steel, they are welcomed as heroes.

After reporting to King Yngwild and checking in on my ailing brother Thorhej, his avian healer urged us to retrieve a rare herb—Birchthorne—to ease his suffering. With no time to waste, I led my companions out of Rusthome, setting our course for the human village of Redwater, where the herb might be found. Luthien, one of our party, seemed particularly eager; she claimed kinship to folk in the area.

But Redwater was troubled. Whispers of nightly attacks proved true when undead surged across the lake under cover of darkness. We rallied swiftly, defending the village with steel and spell. Seeking the source, we borrowed a painted boat—one Luthien had once decorated—and crossed to a nearby isle. There we found the culprit: a slain fey spirit tied to Luthien’s bloodline, its body cursed by a sentient sword that commanded the dead. We claimed the blade, wary of its dark will, and returned to Redwater to regroup.

At dawn, we set off again—this time with Luke Theydark, a sharp-eyed ranger who knew the land. He guided us to ancient ruins deep in the wilds, said to house the Birchthorne. But the ruins were held by a shaman who used the herb’s magic to dominate goblins and ogres. After a swift skirmish, the shaman fell to a single arrow loosed from the treeline. We claimed the Birchthorne and made our way back to Rusthome.

With herb in hand and threats behind us—for now—we took our leave of the mountain halls. I looked one last time upon the stonework of my home, then turned toward the tunnels ahead. There is always another path, another burden—and Moradin's forge still burns.

Into Dover’s Hall and the Duergar Refugees

With Birchthorne in hand and my brother Thorhej’s strength returning, we departed Rusthome once more—this time to investigate the tunnel carved open by the Digging Dreadnought. I knew these mountains well, and if such a warmachine had been stored anywhere, it would be in Dover’s Hall.

In the darkness of the tunnels, we encountered two others who shared our path: Sodak Truesteel, a commissioner from Mistwall, and Nila Whitemane, a quiet yet formidable Goliath. They too had come in search of answers. Together, we scaled the breach and emerged into the cold grandeur of Dover’s Hall—once a proud Dwarven stronghold near the Icemeet Landing, now half-swallowed by silence and mystery.

Within its cavernous reaches, we found signs of recent occupation. Our investigation led us to the Stone Dragon Inn, where an ambush awaited—an iron bull sent crashing into us by a treacherous innkeeper. Once defeated, we saw it for what it was: a distraction. Faint light beckoned deeper into the hall, toward the Thronehall.

Pressing on, we passed silent statues of ancient kings and dwarves of legend, their stone gazes heavy with judgment. In the plaza before the gate to the throne, we were intercepted. A Duergar patrol, led by a spymaster named Rudolf Felleye, revealed that we had been watched for some time—and deemed worthy. We were brought into the refugee camp beneath the towering statue of High King Dover Steelheart, where hundreds of displaced Duergar huddled under makeshift tents.

Then, an audience was granted with their king—Orm Mountainbane, rightful ruler of the long-abandoned Deeptower Hold. The truth he laid bare chilled even my forge-hardened heart: their ancient home had been seized by Vutrax the Ebonmaw, a black dragon whose fury had scattered his people into the deeper tunnels. Their raids on Icemeet and Rusthome were acts of desperation, not conquest.

I could not hold back. I told the king what I thought of their misguided strikes. Yet, to his credit, Orm listened. He asked if we would do what his people could not—drive the beast from Deeptower. In return, he offered not only peace, but the treasures of the hold itself.

With the eyes of a battered people upon us, we accepted.

Now, we march toward Deeptower—not just for glory or gold, but to reclaim a home lost to shadow. For if there is one thing a dwarf cannot abide, it is a stronghold left in ruin.

 Descent into Deeptower

After our audience with King Orm in Dover's Hall, we were given a mission of deep importance—to reclaim Deeptower, the ancient hold now overrun and defiled by a black dragon named Vultrax the Ebonmaw. It was Orm’s ancestral seat, and Vultrax had driven him and his people from it. This was no errand. It was a reclamation.

The journey began with an old teleportation circle hidden within the mountains—a remnant of a long-abandoned Drow embassy once carved into the side of Deeptower itself. It sparked to life once more, and with a flash of arcane light, we found ourselves in deep darkness.

What greeted us was unexpected: a prison complex, eerily quiet and curiously built. The Sun Prison, as we later learned, was designed not with iron bars or manacles, but with open cells that allowed sunlight to  touch the inmates. Its purpose was cruel and clever: a place to hold those who feared the sun.

Inside, we found mind flayers, some still imprisoned, others free and Duergar enthralled by their psionic control. Their thoughts were poison, their thralls relentless. But we cut through the gloom with steel and spell, and Moradin’s light drove back the darkness once more.

From there, we began our descent. The stairs spiraled downward endlessly, wrapping the mountain’s heart like a helix of stone. The deeper we went, the more twisted the denizens became,  outcasts and bandits, those who had crept into the abandoned halls in search of treasure, shelter, or power. Each skirmish was different. Some we talked past. Others we fought.

At last, we reached the bottom.

The old throne room of Deeptower had become Vultrax’s lair—a place of ruin and shadow, where gold had melted into slag and old dwarven banners lay scorched or buried. The once-great hold was now a nest of rot and acid.

We had planned well. Bobby the Warpig, a leatherskinned sellsword with a ferocious temper and an even fiercer throw, had joined us for the final assault.

The fight was brutal.

Vultrax rose like a storm. Acid breath scorched the walls. Luthien fell first—then Ronald. I called on every ounce of divine power to bring them back, pouring Moradin’s will into broken bodies. Ronald’s soul returned… but his form did not. Once a proud high elf, he rose reborn as a tortle, his features altered by the divine strain of resurrection.

Even as the battle raged, the wyrm took to the air. It curled, spiraled—preparing for a deadly dive. But fate had other plans.

Bobby, eyes narrowed, let loose his javelin.

The strike hit true—in a manner both grotesque and glorious. The weapon pierced the dragon’s underbelly—through an unarmored, most unfortunate opening.

With a shriek, a twist of wings, and a gurgle we still struggle to describe, Vultrax the Ebonmaw fell.

The halls of Deeptower are silent once again. Its king may return.

And I—Smedjohn König—forge-son of Rusthome, stand once more where old fire meets new stone. But I do not yet rest. My work is not done.

There is always another threat. Another burden.

And somewhere, in a forge not yet cooled, the König Opus waits.