Illustration by Adrian Tysoe

That night, as the weary party rested beside Silversmith’s fire and tasted of Merrygold, Silversmith’s lady’s, stew they learned the story of Sliversmith’s clan.  A story that was, in the way of the dwarves, Silversmith’s own story. 

A thousand years ago a great prophet arose amongst the Dwarven Hills.  Eyes of Gold they called him and even the smallest of dwarven children knew his name so revered was he.  Yet despite the esteem in which he was held, Eyes of Gold was forced to wander from Clan to Clan most of his life.  For though they honored him and sang many a song of him, the dwarves were uneasy in his presence.  They knew Eyes of Gold could, at a glance, know their history from their first life stirrings to their last breath—and beyond for some of them.  Sensing their unease, Eyes of Gold would depart their clan; searching, ever searching for that one clan to take him in.  The clan that would be blessed and cursed for accepting him fully.  The clan that would become the very instrument of Fate.

In those days, the Silver Clan was not the large and prosperous clan it is today.  No Dwarven king would (back then) dream of asking this relatively obscure clan for its blessing before ascending the throne.  No—in those days, this was a small clan that, as its name suggests, mined silver in the far Northern Corner of the Dwarven Hills.  The silver they sold mostly to other clans for other dwarves to make jewelry and other silver ornaments.  There were some fine craftsmen amongst the Silver Clan in those days but few were their number.

But the Silver Clan loved tales as perhaps no other dwarven clan before or since.  Every night, they would gather before a great fire and tell tales—the more outrageous the better.  And since Eyes of Gold’s had seen so much in his visions that he had many an incredible tale to tell, he was accepted by the Clan fully and unconditionally.  And so it was that Eyes of Gold uttered the Prophecy while sitting by the Silver fire.