Marblesong
Posted: Thu Jun 18, 2026 6:18 pm
People think exile is the worst thing that can happen to a dwarf.
They're wrong.
The worst thing is spending your whole life carving another family's name into stone while your own is buried beneath the dust.
My family had served Clan Marbletoes for generations. Every statue the clan sold throughout Karagard—every thane, every ancestor, every saint whose face stared proudly from a temple alcove—had first passed through our workshop. Their name stood proudly at the base of every masterpiece.
Ours never did.
Father called it honor. Mother called it tradition. My older brother, Maktrem—Big Mak to everyone who knew him—called it the natural order of things.
I called it theft.
That alone would have made me the family's disappointment. Unfortunately, I was also a dreadful sculptor.
Give Big Mak a block of marble and he'd reveal the soul sleeping inside it.
Give me the same block and I'd probably chip my thumb.
Music, though... music came naturally. I heard rhythm in the strike of chisels, melodies in the ringing of hammers, harmonies in the echoing halls beneath the mountain. I wanted to sing. I wanted to play.
My family considered that little more than idle nonsense. A proper dwarf carved stone. He did not perform for applause.
So I practiced in secret.
For months I hid myself in abandoned tunnels, where no one but the bats had to endure my voice.
Until Big Mak found me.
He didn't shout. Didn't even look angry.
He simply folded his arms and said that if I ever sang again, he'd tell Father. Tell the Marbletoes. Tell everyone.
Unless I abandoned music forever.
I remember smiling.
Not because I agreed.
Because I already knew exactly what I was going to do.
Big Mak had nearly finished a statue of Saerin, the Bearded Keeper. A magnificent piece. The finest he'd ever carved.
One night I slipped into the workshop.
I took up a chisel.
And I shaved the god.
No beard.
Not even stubble.
I figured everyone would believe my brother had committed the sacrilege. He'd be cast out, I'd finally be left in peace, and I'd spend the rest of my days singing where no one could stop me.
It was a flawless plan.
Right up until the Marbletoes guards caught me with the chisel still in my hand.
The punishment came swiftly.
My hair was shaved clean. All of it. They didn't even leave the eyebrows.
Then the alchemists bathed my body in a foul-smelling concoction that ensured it would never grow back.
Among dwarves, baldness is not merely shame.
It is a sentence.
Then they opened the gates of Karagard, threw me out and ordered me never to return.
I still remember looking back at the mountain one last time.
My mother wept.
Father wouldn't meet my eyes.
Big Mak stood perfectly still.
I hated him.
I hated all of them.
Then I laughed.
Because for the first time in my life...
No one could tell me not to sing.
So I did.
I sang until the mountain vanished behind the horizon.
I sang until my voice grew hoarse.
I sang because I had no workshop to return to, no clan to obey, no family name to protect.
I was bald.
Short.
Homeless.
Disgraced.
And finally...
Free!
They stripped me of the clan name, Marbletoes.
So I chose one worthy of the only craft I ever truly loved.
Marblesong.
If the halls of Karagard refuse to remember my voice...
The world outside will!
They're wrong.
The worst thing is spending your whole life carving another family's name into stone while your own is buried beneath the dust.
My family had served Clan Marbletoes for generations. Every statue the clan sold throughout Karagard—every thane, every ancestor, every saint whose face stared proudly from a temple alcove—had first passed through our workshop. Their name stood proudly at the base of every masterpiece.
Ours never did.
Father called it honor. Mother called it tradition. My older brother, Maktrem—Big Mak to everyone who knew him—called it the natural order of things.
I called it theft.
That alone would have made me the family's disappointment. Unfortunately, I was also a dreadful sculptor.
Give Big Mak a block of marble and he'd reveal the soul sleeping inside it.
Give me the same block and I'd probably chip my thumb.
Music, though... music came naturally. I heard rhythm in the strike of chisels, melodies in the ringing of hammers, harmonies in the echoing halls beneath the mountain. I wanted to sing. I wanted to play.
My family considered that little more than idle nonsense. A proper dwarf carved stone. He did not perform for applause.
So I practiced in secret.
For months I hid myself in abandoned tunnels, where no one but the bats had to endure my voice.
Until Big Mak found me.
He didn't shout. Didn't even look angry.
He simply folded his arms and said that if I ever sang again, he'd tell Father. Tell the Marbletoes. Tell everyone.
Unless I abandoned music forever.
I remember smiling.
Not because I agreed.
Because I already knew exactly what I was going to do.
Big Mak had nearly finished a statue of Saerin, the Bearded Keeper. A magnificent piece. The finest he'd ever carved.
One night I slipped into the workshop.
I took up a chisel.
And I shaved the god.
No beard.
Not even stubble.
I figured everyone would believe my brother had committed the sacrilege. He'd be cast out, I'd finally be left in peace, and I'd spend the rest of my days singing where no one could stop me.
It was a flawless plan.
Right up until the Marbletoes guards caught me with the chisel still in my hand.
The punishment came swiftly.
My hair was shaved clean. All of it. They didn't even leave the eyebrows.
Then the alchemists bathed my body in a foul-smelling concoction that ensured it would never grow back.
Among dwarves, baldness is not merely shame.
It is a sentence.
Then they opened the gates of Karagard, threw me out and ordered me never to return.
I still remember looking back at the mountain one last time.
My mother wept.
Father wouldn't meet my eyes.
Big Mak stood perfectly still.
I hated him.
I hated all of them.
Then I laughed.
Because for the first time in my life...
No one could tell me not to sing.
So I did.
I sang until the mountain vanished behind the horizon.
I sang until my voice grew hoarse.
I sang because I had no workshop to return to, no clan to obey, no family name to protect.
I was bald.
Short.
Homeless.
Disgraced.
And finally...
Free!
They stripped me of the clan name, Marbletoes.
So I chose one worthy of the only craft I ever truly loved.
Marblesong.
If the halls of Karagard refuse to remember my voice...
The world outside will!