Raggolgrimbob 'Bob' of the Red Mountains
|Residence||Thorin's Hall Neighbourhoods|
Aye, the Red Mountains, that's where I'm from. You heard me right. From the great fortress of Baraztûm: the haven of the mighty, the home of wisdom, the halls of craft: enlaid with silver and bespangled with myriad gems, defended by the mastery of tactic and cunning disguise.
And so aye, that does makes me a Blacklock -- of Druin's Folk -- one of those dark dwarrows you've heard about. And no it's no wives tale: we do exist, just like you, only we have better taste in travel garb, I see.
So how did I get here, ya ask! Long story. Are you sure you've got the time for a lecture on the treacherous treachery of the men of Rhûn? Or how I lost my prized white Battle Goat while crossing the pass in the Misty Mountains? Oh I found out later that this way was not especially clear. Thanks for informing me -- it won't bring my old goat back.
Why am I here? Easier question to answer! I'm here to make a name for myself, plain and simple. I needed to get away from my father's house and out into the world. Anyway, my old dad has been insufferable as of late -- him and his Byzantine machinations! -- to get me to start carving out my own hall right away, before I get any seasoning in life. Look, I know -- and everyone else knows -- he's only trying to compensate for having lost his own hall. He wants me to settle in our familial mountain in the far East, out in the middle of nowhere, next to an active volcano, near a warlike tribe of low men... instead of go on living in our civilized quarters in Baraztûm, or in even such a nice little place as this.
I am pleased to hear that the halls of Khazad-dûm are open for visitors, and not the least of which - the ruins of the crumbling stash of books in their once-great library. Too bad that over the past centuries, those goblins and orcs have been using the pages of those venerable tomes to wipe their bums, but there is something still to be salvaged. Good news indeed! I'm also glad to see that a different sort of library is open to travelers: the modest gem in that hunting lodge called Imladris. It seems my journey West was not in vain!
Dizinh his sister, Naragtunzal his uncle, Bahyrel his grandfather: have all followed him West, to his chagrin.
Bob is silent on this subject.
a good tune, a good laugh, a good pie, a good pipe - and lots of bling!
Bob pities those cursed with no sense of humour.
To make a name for himself, or at least have something to write about!
Call Me Bob