I am Thorgrim Ebonhall, second son of Bardal and Rubia Ebonhall. I studied masonry and warcraft at my warrior father’s knee and learned of Moradin at my mother’s. I became, in time, a renowned mason and miner in my own right.
As I grew older, I learned much of Moradin and soon discovered that my faith, in combination with the secret words I had learned at his mother’s knee, could produce miracles. Some called it magic, a power created by spells and crafted by the manipulation of natural elements, but I knew better – there is no such thing as spells, only prayers. And prayers were answered by Moradin. I knew prayers to empty my tunnels of water, to disintegrate stone, to shield me from falling rock or, in orc raids, arrows and spears. No, they didn’t always work, Moradin has many children to watch over after all, but they worked when truly needed, enough for me to know the truth of my faith.
Then Moradin failed me. I needed him, and he did not hear my call. I, his faithful servant for many years, a most vocal follower, was ignored and left alone. I was trapped under rubble and debris as I lay in wait with my brothers to crush a wayward party of orcs. The orcs know nothing of weights and pressure, and they tried to drive a too heavy wagon, laden with precious oils, across a weak and crumbling bridge. More fool I for being under it when it collapsed. Had we known of their cargo, we would have found a less dangerous place from which to stage our ambush, but we didn’t know. Their wagon pitched over as the rotting stone of the bridge collapsed to one side, a cask of oil shattering on the stones around me, even as their guttering torches fell into the darkness that shrouded us. My brothers were quicker than I, all of them escaping to do battle with the bastard orcs and win great glory for our clan, thinking all the while that I was with them. But I was trapped in a flaming hell. I called upon Moradin to shield me from the fire, to drown the flames and to dissolve the heavy stones under which I was pinned, but to no avail.
My brothers could not hear my screams over the din of battle and the shrieks of dying orcs, so I burned. Bravil was the first to notice my absence, the first to come to my aid. Fire is no friend of his, having nearly killed him as a child and forever changing his appearance and spirit, but he braved the fire for me. Had he not extinguished the flames, I would have died that day.
My brothers dug me out after routing the orcs, Anvil nearly killing himself in his rage to lift the stone off me, but the damage was done. My broken leg has never healed quite right, my scarred hands are not so nimble as they once were, and my burned visage is a mark of Moradin’s betrayal. I still believe, but I no longer have faith. You understand the difference? I no longer tell others of his power, that he is worthy of devotion. I no longer pray, even in the most dire need; I do not seek Moradin’s aid. When pressed and in great need, I challenge Moradin to perform some great work, if he is able, if he has the power, but I no longer expect a response. If it comes, so be it. If not…I have made my peace. I am ready to die.