Dorwinion is the Land of Wines, ‘though it would be fair to say that we simply till the earth with greater skill than other wine-makers: a legacy of a quietly passed on legend of long-ago, if to be believed; a tale of ‘woods that oft moved', and 'spoke in lengthy wheezes of secrets of the earth'. We had friendship with these creatures and our farmers learned much in their tutelage from these elder wonders. They taught us patiently in their labourious, softly-spoken way. Wahtever the truth in that, we now trade with many, a web of wealth widely spun, and we send much of our produce north, up the River Running – called the Celduin by our Elven friends – to Esgaroth, Dale, Erebor and the fairest Halls of all, in Eryn Galen.
So, trade is our essence, then. Wines that make even the Elves feel what mortals feel only too often; that is our secret. King Thranduil and his Line in Eryn Galen is our friend and ally, and there are those of the fairer race that live amongst us in honour. They live amongst us perhaps not just for our wines - for we have a heritage that traces through the tangled lines of history. Adani, they called us, the Eldar of old, and we were here before the Edain gathered their rewards for their heroism in Beleriand; but, as not all elves went West, neither did the men we were all go West. We were the precursors of the House of Hador, later known so well for their tragic heroes rather than their wondrous wines. Which, I wonder, is the greater in it's lasting?
There is irony sunk deep within this, for we are as noble as we have ever been, have endured wars between the Dunedain and the tribes of the South and vicious warriors of the East. An uneasy peace, never acknowledged, lies between us and the inhabitants of vast Rhun. We even till our lands using their Kine, those great white oxen that dwell on the shores of the inland sea. These are the very same that King Vorondil hunted and slew to make the great Horn of Gondor – but there is no friendship with their masters to be found. Nor will there ever be, and we see much unrest along the shores of the Inner Sea.
Our merchants and our allies run true, as if they were the very lifeblood of our kingdom, yet our military follows the patterns of those we treat with. Organised along the lines of those of the Lake Men of Dale and Esgaroth for the greater part, we have a dualistic society, fostered by the Elves amongst us, and our people have learned their ways of war in turn. We have traded good money for the weapons of the Dwarves; few in number, yet effective all the same. We fight when it is needed, yet are not warlike in manner. There is a coming storm – movement in the East, vast herds and many wains moving around the Sea of Rhun; shadows gather around the mountains of Mordor, and glints of flame and lightning gutter feebly in our eyes, but we are distant from whatever evils transpire therein. To the folk of Gondor, the tragic remnants of the Edain bloodlines, it must be enough to make them cower in the face of the storm, like a crack in a war-smith’s anvil.
When called to war, we will not side in any way other than we have in the past: we are the Atani, as all good men were before Beleriand, and we will fight for our friends: both Elves and Men. These we would choose to die for and with, and the East is no friend, leaving Mordor and the Shadow in Mirkwood. There is little choice there; if forced to war, we will use the wealth of our bounteous lands to pay for it. Our armed forces are not fat and lax, they drill with precision and we bear weapons made by Men and Dwarves, bows of Greenwood the Great, and the skill of the Northmen we have absorbed over many centuries trains our cavalries. When war comes, Dorwinion will be ready, IS ready. As one, we await our fate, our survival, or our doom.
So, trade is our essence, then. Wines that make even the Elves feel what mortals feel only too often; that is our secret. King Thranduil and his Line in Eryn Galen is our friend and ally, and there are those of the fairer race that live amongst us in honour. They live amongst us perhaps not just for our wines - for we have a heritage that traces through the tangled lines of history. Adani, they called us, the Eldar of old, and we were here before the Edain gathered their rewards for their heroism in Beleriand; but, as not all elves went West, neither did the men we were all go West. We were the precursors of the House of Hador, later known so well for their tragic heroes rather than their wondrous wines. Which, I wonder, is the greater in it's lasting?
There is irony sunk deep within this, for we are as noble as we have ever been, have endured wars between the Dunedain and the tribes of the South and vicious warriors of the East. An uneasy peace, never acknowledged, lies between us and the inhabitants of vast Rhun. We even till our lands using their Kine, those great white oxen that dwell on the shores of the inland sea. These are the very same that King Vorondil hunted and slew to make the great Horn of Gondor – but there is no friendship with their masters to be found. Nor will there ever be, and we see much unrest along the shores of the Inner Sea.
Our merchants and our allies run true, as if they were the very lifeblood of our kingdom, yet our military follows the patterns of those we treat with. Organised along the lines of those of the Lake Men of Dale and Esgaroth for the greater part, we have a dualistic society, fostered by the Elves amongst us, and our people have learned their ways of war in turn. We have traded good money for the weapons of the Dwarves; few in number, yet effective all the same. We fight when it is needed, yet are not warlike in manner. There is a coming storm – movement in the East, vast herds and many wains moving around the Sea of Rhun; shadows gather around the mountains of Mordor, and glints of flame and lightning gutter feebly in our eyes, but we are distant from whatever evils transpire therein. To the folk of Gondor, the tragic remnants of the Edain bloodlines, it must be enough to make them cower in the face of the storm, like a crack in a war-smith’s anvil.
When called to war, we will not side in any way other than we have in the past: we are the Atani, as all good men were before Beleriand, and we will fight for our friends: both Elves and Men. These we would choose to die for and with, and the East is no friend, leaving Mordor and the Shadow in Mirkwood. There is little choice there; if forced to war, we will use the wealth of our bounteous lands to pay for it. Our armed forces are not fat and lax, they drill with precision and we bear weapons made by Men and Dwarves, bows of Greenwood the Great, and the skill of the Northmen we have absorbed over many centuries trains our cavalries. When war comes, Dorwinion will be ready, IS ready. As one, we await our fate, our survival, or our doom.