The Tale of Froinbur Oak-Beard

Froinbur was born in the cold blue valleys of Ered Luin, in a humble settlement carved between iron-veins and pine. He was the eldest son of Froin Silver-hand, a craftsman whose skill was whispered of in many halls, and Nagni the Walking Flower, whose gentleness and quiet strength were the heart of their home.

His little sister, Freeda, quick-witted and deft with tools, completed the family — along with Herger, the loyal hound who guarded their door and warmed their hearth.

Life was honest, simple, and steady.

Until it wasn’t.

One season, Froinbur travelled with Herger to Hobbiton, drawn by the promise of music, feasting, and pipe-smoke with friends from the region.
When he returned… his home was silent.

The door stood open.
The fire was cold.
And his family was nowhere to be found.

Neighbours spoke of a routine trip to Gondamon for trade, nothing more.
But something in Froinbur’s heart felt wrong — so he set out after them.

What he found were signs of struggle on the old road that winds toward the ruined dwarven city of Sarnúr.
And in those shadowed, goblin-haunted ruins, he discovered the remains of his family’s belongings — torn, blood-stained, scattered like broken memories.

No bodies.
Only the grim marks of a feast.

His heart fell like an anvil dropped from a great height.

With Herger as the last piece of his kin, Froinbur wandered for a time, drifting between grief and fury. Until rage found its shape — and that shape was vengeance.

During Yuletide, he marched to the great gathering of the Blue Mountains Regiment. He did not ask for entry; he demanded it, with the fire of a dwarf who has lost everything but purpose.

There he trained as a scout and hunter, and many goblins and orcs came to curse the name Froinbur as the last they ever spoke.

Yet shadows cling not only to the mountains, but to the heart.

Over years, a heavy sorrow settled on him, the weight of loneliness and a home that no longer existed.
Unable to withstand the burden, Froinbur withdrew from his comrades, taking only Herger, and walked toward the sea — seeking silence, seeking escape, seeking anything.

But the sea did not offer forgetting.
It offered clarity.

Sitting by the river, Froinbur understood a truth that struck him harder than any goblin blade:

If he could not raise the dead, he could raise his own name.
If he could not reclaim the past, he could carve a future with his own hands.

So he returned.

Back to Ered Luin.
Back to the mountains.
Back to the craft of war.

He set aside his bow and took up shield and spear, for he no longer wished to strike from afar. He wanted to meet his foes face-to-face, eye-to-eye, grief-to-grief.

He lived as a mercenary, bounty hunter, and solitary guardian of forgotten roads — a dwarf reforging himself, one battle at a time.

Until one day, the longing for true kinship outweighed the weight of sorrow.
He remembered the laughter, the battles, and the unbroken fellowship of the Blue Mountains Regiment.

And so he walked into one of their assemblies again.

And Lady Omali, without hesitation, welcomed him home.

Now Froinbur stands once more as a dwarf with a broken past, a tempered spirit, and a name carried like a hammer against the dark.

To honour his kin.
To protect Ered Luin.
And to ensure that his name echoes in every cave where shadows dare to gather.