With terrible dragging gasps, Dáin fought for his last words. His
once-bright blue eyes were fixed upon some distant sight with endless
longing. “I see her when… I close my eyes…”
The old voice faded. The grizzled white head slowly drifted to one side.
“The Iron Hills for me,” Dís finished, rusty and halting. Then she lowered her face into her hands with a broken wail.
Dain week!!! the theme was “Home Again” and i felt a very strong need to paint the iron hills,,,, this is also sorta sansûkh related of course,,,i hope to draw pics for every day’s theme!
I don’t know how much I’ll be able to do for Dáin appreciation week, but I wanted to do smething, so here’s a bit of a speed paint of Dáin chilling in the Iron Hills.
Chessssssssss!!!! That is SO HOW I PICTURE THE IRON HILLS, that background is INCREDIBLE! this is gorgeous
What
defines a leader isn’t a show of strength in words or deed or arm,
nor how well you spin an axe. What defines Dain Ironfoot as a Lord
under the Iron Hills is his ability to be merciful – even to one
who’s gone so far astray.
“I’KHIZ!”
The
great cry and subsequent commotion rang out from the corridor outside
Dain Ironfoot’s great hall – it was followed by a howl and the
sound of something, or someone, being dragged across the floor, and
the mighty crash of a door being hurriedly slammed shut. In a moment,
the King’s Guards were at attention, their axes pointed towards the
entrance and their backs to their Lord, who wasn’t feeling particularly
impressed.
“I hope that’s not a prisoner – I don’t need orc filth cluttering up the dungeons,” he groaned, ignoring chancellor Hanar, who was waving at the Lord to stay back – but Dain reached for his axe nevertheless.
“Alright,
let’s have a look at this one then,” he sighed, feeling the
reassuring weight of the metal shaft in his hands. His guards’ eyes
were nervously flitting to Dain and then back to the door, some of
them shrinking away slightly as the cacophony of what seemed twenty
dwarrows rose up the corridor, coming closer to them…
Here is the 13th track on the ongoing album, ‘Songs of Sansûkh’; a choral version of the Iron Hills Soldier’s Song from Chapter 34, sung as Dáin Ironfoot prepares to face his final battle.
Rebloggering for dain2k15! Bc I am without a laptop rn and can’t create anything new, boo 😦 still, enjoy my warbling.
(The link for sheet music is on the sansukh music page – follow the link at the top of my blog!)
me, on a date: so what do you think of Dain Ironfoot?
them: ugh what a jerk, he just wants to take the throne from Thorin-
me, tying breadsticks to my face like tusks: HAVE YE CONSIDERED JUST SODDING OFF
In honour of Dáin2k15, I’ve decided to compile my own personal fanfic rec list for the lovely guy! Quite a few of these are drabbles; quite a few of these are long. Some are silly, and some will make you wanna go cry in the dark. But they’re all Dáin Ironfoot friendly.
Have a nice week, everybody (I’ll add more as I find them, and if you have any recommendations feel free to let me know!).
(Based on “Gus the Theatre Cat” by T.S.Eliot, and may be sung to the music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, if you have two people with the right vocal ranges. I didn’t. XD)
Dain is the king of Erebor He’s called (as I ought to have told you before) “The Ironfoot”, “son of Nain” But he dislikes fuss so much that we usually call him just “Dain”
His beard is quite silvered, he’s lived a long time And he suffers from stiffness that makes his joints ache And his Ironfoot lingers where it used to stride Though to not be seen faltering’s a matter of pride
For he still is the dwarf that he was in his prime When his name became famous in song and in rhyme And sometimes he’ll gather with friends for a beer And as the night passes they’ll weep and they’ll cheer
At memories of battles when they were so young And when the third barrel has loosened their tongues Then someone might ask him to kindly explain How at Azanulbizar he saw Durin’s Bane Though he never speaks of it, the look in his eyes Is enough to turn drunken dwarves sober and wise
But his favourite memory, as he seldom tells Is when he was but the Lord of the Iron Hills
“In my time every possible foe I have fought From elf-lords to goblins and warg-riding orcs When faced with a cave-troll I never turned tail For an Iron Hills dwarf knows not how to quail
“I’ve stared down advisors when they were not right And I’ve gone incognito to join in bar fights I’ve tried to be just and to deal without debt But show scorn unrelenting to weasels I’ve met
“For a message from Mordor I don’t give a hoot And I threw out the Nazgul and put in the boot I’ve forged friendships with Dale and with Mirkwood as well And even the Shire where Hobbits still dwell But my favourite memory, that I’d never sell Is when I was but the Lord of the Iron Hills”
Then if someone will bring him a barrel of ale He will tell how he once pulled a pig by the tail And some bright young dwarflings will creep to his back And pretend to be foemen and swiftly attack
And he’ll say “Now these dwarrows, they do not get trained “As we did in the days when the Oakenshield reigned” But all the young dwarrows, ignoring his frown Will pull on his beard, and grab at his crown He loves to regale them with stories and jokes And to bribe them with cookies until they might choke
“This Erebor kingdom is all very well But it can’t hold a candle to what I recall My dearly-held memory, where I long to dwell When I was but the Lord of the Iron Hills”
To Dáin son of Náin, heir of the Lordship of the Iron Hills, from his cousin Thorin son of Thráin, Prince of Erebor, greetings…
…
One hundred and seventy-four years is a very long time.
(And who else is left that knows what it means, how it feels? To be a child and also a leader? To lose so very much and yet still go on, because the responsibility demands it of you? Who else is left, who understands just how heavy it is?)
Two very different but equally remarkable Dwarves learn to lean on each other in quiet, subtle ways.
Aw Yiss 