The powerful tools of stone, steel, gems, and gold endure across centuries, outlasting even the songs of Elves as they turn into whispers. In those days, we Dwarves forged some of our greatest works, one of them being the Nauglamir, shaped by our hands in the halls of Nogrod. It was a necklace far beyond compare, filled with jewels from many lands. Now Thingol, the Elven king, has commanded us to set the cursed Silmaril into it.
At first, I felt great pride in what we Dwarves could achieve. For in our hands, gems and metal bend to a higher purpose. We would take the crafts of our fathers and bind the light of Fëanor into a creation unmatched to all of the world, no Elf lord nor Vala could compete against. This was proof of our worth, showing the Eldar that we are no less than them.
And yet…fear stirs with me. The Silmaril is no simple jewel. It burns with a fire of its own, provoking greed and wrath into anyone who beholds it. I saw this flame in Thingol’s eyes as he clutched the Nauglamir, fully consuming him. I wondered if this jewel would bring ruin upon us as it did so many before us? Will we learn from the fate of others that have been scorned by the Simirils light?
Still, I can't lose hope, not yet. We are strong and our craft is unmatched. If Thingol refuses to see our worth, then let him behold the might of Dwarves, this time we won't be forging. We will be taking down those who underestimate and scorn us.
So I write unknowing of whats to come but I sense that more blood will be spilled so long as the Silmaril’s light shines on.