Item:Rhovanion Lost Lore Bookcase

Rhovanion Lost Lore Bookcase

• Bind to Account on Acquire
• Decoration Category: Wall
 
 
• "A bookcase holding your collection of Rhovanion Lost Lore."
 
• Worth: 1  

Item Information

This item is a reward for the following deed:

• [120] The Lost Lore of Rhovanion

When this item is interacted with in a player's home, a dialogue menu appears with options to read as many of the Rhovanion Audio Journals as the interacting character has collected. An extra option to close the book, hiding the text and ending the voice-over early, is also available.

Eryn Lasgalen - The Gweriamir

By King Thranduil Swiftstream The Gweriamir "Listen, and you shall hear the tale of strife and friendship between Elves and dwarves, circling back over the long years, in the shape of a single emerald necklace. It was a necklace of ancient make, wrought by the dwarves of old. Fine and gleaming was the gold, encrusted with five hundred perfect glittering emeralds, maybe more. Perfect, wondrous, radiant. A gift the emerald necklace was, given freely in times of good will. But friendship, far more fragile than any metal or gem, did not endure. What memories remain of those first years are but fragments. The emerald necklace was lost in war, given in marriage, tainted by treachery, and cast aside in sorrow. Gweriamir we named that necklace then, the Jewel of Betrayal, and no sign of it was seen or heard for years beyond counting. Time went on. To the Great Greenwood we came, and, sorrow and misfortune ever at our heels, finally to caverned Felegoth, near Erebor, and so, near to dwarves. Thus an ancient bond was reforged. The eternal story of Elves and dwarves took its familiar path: friendship, distrust, strife, and then, betimes, friendship again. On just such a peace-weaving visit did I come to Thrór's mountain halls. The feast was set, words of courtesy prepared - and then he stood, where upon his breast I saw the Gweriamir, gleaming green and gold! It was given to him by Men, Thrór said. Men chanced upon it in some troll-hoard, he claimed. I was wroth and had no ears for such tales. Over that cursed necklace, blood was nearly shed that day. Truly, it may have come to blood thereafter, had not the dragon come and scattered the dwarves far from Erebor. Years flowed by once more, and we tended to our woodland realm, forgetting friendship, emeralds, and grievances for the time. Yes, years ran together until one day, everything changed. The news came: the dragon was slain, there was a king under the mountain. And that day we remembered - remembered friendship, grievances, and debt. To Erebor from Mirkwood we came, armed, righteous, bent on reclaiming what was ours. I do not like to think what might have happened, if true enemies had not appeared. The Battle of Five Armies it is called, but there were only two sides in that hour: Elves, Men, and dwarves against the throngs of evil, until the Eagles came. After the battle, the dragon's hoard was divied up, and though I would have forfeited all our share for it, the Gweriamir went not to Elves but to Men. It was then that Bard, the leader of Men, did the wise and unthinkable: he broke apart the necklace, handing its gold to the dwarves and to the Elves its gems. Perhaps the age of Men is truly come. Or so it seems to me when the greatest wisdom is to break what you hold dear and to loose your shackles with forgetfulness."

Dale-lands - The Black Arrows

By Queen Erna The Black Arrows "Long ago, there lived a simple archer named Bródda. One day, he came across the Dwarf-king Thrór beset by Orcs, and with his arrows saved the Dwarf-king's life. Thus was Bródda made Lord of Dale, and by the Dwarf-king Thrór gifted the name Geirjarn Ironbolt and a Black Arrow, thrice forged, hard enough to pierce through stone. King Thrór promised such a gift to each Lord of Dale. Trade grew and thrived between Men and Dwarves, and for seven more lords, seven more Black Arrows were forged. And then the dragon came. Fire and ruin did Smaug rain on Dale and Erebor, for he had set his heart upon the riches under the mountain. Now the Lord of Dale when Smaug attacked was Geirjarn, third of his name. Seven Black Arrows he loosed upon that worm, and each fell short of its mark, the last leaving only a scratch, before he perished in the flames. Smaug's Desolation fell over the vale. Men fled to Lake-town and the Dwarves fled farther. Geirjarn became known as Girion, his sad and shameful tale spread far and wide. What few knew was that one Black Arrow survived. Eight Lords, eight arrows. Did you count? It fled the fires with Brandjarn, Girion's son, who survived. Brandjarn took the name Brand, hiding all his lineage for shame of his father's failing. And so the Black Arrow passed secretly from father to son, father to son. Many years went by, and Bain, Brand's grandson, came out of the woods to be an archer of the Lake-town guard, like his distant ancestor before him. Father to son and father to son again the Black Arrow was secretly passed, until the day the dragon sleeping within the mountain awaked. Roused from slumber, Smaug took to the sky, and all the Lake-folk would have died but for your great grandsire, named as you are: Bard. Fire around him and dragon above, Bard stood just as Girion had done long before. Yet Bard's aim was true, and his one Black Arrow struck Smaug down. After the slaying of Smaug, Bard's true lineage was revealed, and so he was named Bard the Bowman, new king of new-built Dale. Great were the gifts of the new Dwarf-king, Dáin Ironfoot, not least among them new Black Arrows, thrice forged, one for each new Lord of Dale. And so this arrow was forged for you, my son. May you never need it, yet keep it well, for some distant day, it may save us all."

Erebor - Dragons

By King Thorin III Stonehelm Dragons "Many are the enemies of dwarves: goblins, Wargs, spiders, Orcs. But oldest and greatest of our foes, yes, maybe greater even than Durin's Bane, are dragons. Where dwarves toil tirelessly, dragons sleep. What dwarves have mined and wrought, dragons steal. What dwarves barter and bestow, dragons hoard. Truly, they are our natural foes. And, like all of dwarf-kind's greatest sorrows, the curse of dragons was brought on by ourselves, and cost us all we dreamed and held most dear. For it was we, of Durin's Folk, who woke the great dragons in times of old, and in doing so lost the Grey Mountains that we called home. To Khazad-dûm we retreated then, but at last the wakened dragons came and found us there. With the aid of Elves and Men, we bested them, though the cost was great, and for a time knew peace. Centuries of peace passed, and the memory of dragons faded. So it was that to the Grey Mountains we sojourned a second time, unknowing that the dragons who had lived and fled lay slumbering there. Again we fled the dragons' wrath and this time came to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. But the great Scatha, wakened, wandered far and wide, troubling all. It was a Man, Fram, son of Frumgar, Chief of the Éothéod, who ended the dragon Scatha. A great deed to echo through the ages, and a dragon's hoard as prize. Now much of Scatha's hoard was taken from Durin's Folk, and so a messenger was sent to the Men of the Éothéod, begging our share. What was their reply? A necklace made of Scatha's teeth and nothing more. This was the final dragon's curse: a sickness of greed that turns those who should be allies into foes. Time went and our dreams of the North would not die. So yet again, in the days of Thorin I, to the Grey Mountains we ventured again. This time, the dragons whose lives and memories are longer than ours, bided their time and waited. In a time of quiet, when the new king, Dáin I thought all safe, when the Men of the Éothéod were off at war, then the dragons struck, and much was lost. The cold-drake Vethúg Wintermind slayed both King Dáin I and his son, Frór. Their Grey Kingdom was lost, and we fled again, tears in our eyes, to return north no more. Now Thrór II built anew in Erebor, and Grór his brother in the Iron Hills. Our dreams were dead or abandoned, but in time Smaug the Golden awoke and to the Lonely Mountain came. The tale of Smaug in Erebor, and how upon Thorin Oakenshield's return, Smaug woke and was slain, is well enough known in these times, I will say only: let this be the last dragon and last of our sorrows. Some may say I am cautious or old and weary, but still I say: let us dream no more dreams that may bring ruin on Durin's Folk. Let dragons sleep, and dwarves toil fruitfully where they dwell, and the work of our hands suffice."

Ironfold - Iron Cold

By the Longbeard Dwarves Iron Cold 'The wealth of Khazad-dûm is known 'Fair gems and mithril deck its throne 'And yet that gold-rich kingdom lacks 'The heart of hauberk, sword, and axe 'And so we went forth seeking Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'Farin, Blackmattock, fared afar 'By shining sun and sheen of star 'And found what once was merely myth 'That red-veined peak, the Rusted Lith 'And stayed among the Hills of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'His delvings found a wealth of ore 'Its worth a hundred hoards and more 'A carven keep he wrought to last 'Hewn from hillside: stout Járnfast 'Blackmattock became Lord of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'For years in Járnfast all was well 'But ages end, and times grow fell Black 'Thangorodrim fell in thunder 'And split the world's stone spine asunder 'Shattered was the Hold of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'Still through long years of dauntless toil 'Lord Grár the Grave dug stone and soil 'The Fast was mended, whole once more 'And grander even than before 'And so returned our wealth of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'Alas, the peril had not passed 'Morgoth's moaning host amassed 'In cracks and cleavings under hill 'Nameless beasts, with yearnings ill 'Fell things moved ’neath seams of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'The Fast's foundation stones were rent 'The throng spilled forth without relent 'Till Grár descended, stern and swift 'And broke the roof above the rift 'Grár the Grim-brow died for Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'The cleft collapsed; Grár was no more 'His mattock fell upon the floor 'Morgoth's monsters shrieked and spit 'Imprisoned in the Howling Pit 'The horde remains entombed in Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'Lord Frár took up his liege's maul 'He called his council, wise dwarves all 'To bid them bar his father's grave 'So no fiend could escape the cave 'The crack was bound with bonds of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold 'Above the Pit, three gates of steel 'Upon the last, a mithril seal 'Graven rune-spells guard that curtain 'Break them not, or doom is certain 'Thus is writ the Rede of Iron 'Iron hard and iron cold

Ered Mithrin - Thafar-Gathol

By the Zhélruka Dwarves Thafar-gathol 'The harps sing loud, the fires burn low 'Our thoughts now stray to long ago 'When in the north and far away 'The anvils rang ‘neath Mountains Grey 'In olden days, when all was sundered 'Our sires left strongholds wrecked and plundered 'And hewed new homes far under stone 'To carve a kingdom of their own 'With iron fists and hammers strong 'They ruled a realm of storied song 'The glitt'ring mines and glimm'ring hall 'Of peerless, proud Thafar-gathol 'O reaches rich with gem and ore! 'Resplendent runes writ on the door! 'O kingly crown of ruby wrought! 'The forge-fires flaming ever-hot! 'Beryl, bloodstone, sapphire, sard, 'Darkest onyx, diamond hard 'Gold and garnet filled their hoards 'And shone upon their shimm'ring swords 'Yet tales they tell of greater treasure 'Matchless wealth past mind and measure 'Mighty mithril, blazing bright 'That drenched the darkened depths with light 'The harps grow still, the embers dim 'Our ballads glad grow black and grim 'For in the north and far away 'Our days drew short ‘neath Mountains Grey 'Now heed and hearken as I speak 'Of times that turned from blithe to bleak 'Fast and fearful came the fall 'Of fair, forlorn Thafar-gathol

Ered Mithrin - Vengeance

By Smaug the Golden Smaug's Lament 'The war is lost, Thangorodrim broken, the glorious hosts fled. Sister Etterfang and I are the last of our proud line. But it is not over. Oh, no, for we will bring such terrible vengeance upon them... upon them all! We will bide our time high up in these mountains. This is a home for dragons. We will feast and gather treasure and grow strong. We will learn to cover where we are soft. But for now, sleep, and dreams of our revenge.' 'Awakened! Disturbed by little pests, scraping in the walls of my mountain. I can smell them, but I do not know the smell. It is not Men, no, nor Elves, nor Orcs... Dwarves! How busily the noisy little insects carve up my peak, stealing my rightful wealth! They will see how Smaug the Golden welcomes intruders. Aha, but how industrious these dwarves were while I slumbered! Carven halls of stone, gold and gemstone shaped and shined. It is worthy of my splendor, this new lair.' 'Awake, again! What is this? I hear you, Etterfang! My sister is in battle, in pain! Rragh! I cannot reach her, my lair is sealed by fallen stone. Rend with all my fury, I still cannot carve an exit fast enough. Oh sister, sister, burn them all! Sister Etterfang is not in her lair. There was a struggle. I see the sheared stone from her thrashing claws, the ground scorched by her breath. The smell of a dwarf! She is still alive, I feel it. I will find you, sister.' 'The Orcs whisper of a great dragon in the Misty Mountains. Perhaps it is Etterfang. I am loath to leave my hoard unguarded, but I must find her. It is good to stretch my wings and soar.' 'There is no sign of Sister Etterfang. Men here worship a dragon they name Draigoch. How amusing. Perhaps I will find my own clan of followers, though I so prefer to toy with them and then eat them.' 'What disturbs my slumber now? Rumbling. Am I trapped again? Grragh! What is this? The heads of five dragon-whelps, left before my cave... dwarf-axes sunk into them? Now, now at last, they have truly wakened Smaug's wrath! Sister missing, dragon-whelps slain... I have known only sorrow in these grey peaks. Let sorrow take wing. I am fury, I am vengeance, I am Smaug the Golden, mighty and merciless. I will roam until I find dwarves - and then let them cower before my wrath!'

Thikil-gundu - Frost-heart

By Karazgar the Weeping Warrior The Pretender Lord Sauron, what a legacy you have left behind! Your servants quarrel and seek in vain for dominion of Mordor, and the would-be Free Peoples pour through the Morannon to pick at your bones. If not for me, your grip on this realm would have slipped long ago. It was not your loss of the Ring that unmade you, nor the armies of Men, but your pride and pettiness. Ah, but I sensed that weakness long ago... when you hid in frailty beneath Dol Guldur, desperate to wield the dragons that lingered in this realm. You spoke of a survivor of the Elder Days, a great Cold-dragon: Hrímil Frost-heart. Terrible in size and might, Hrímil had slain the Longbeards of the Steel Keep and now slumbered atop their hoards. It was she you desired above all. In the halls of the Steel Keep, I learned that Hrímil had remained faithful to your master of old: the Dark Lord, Morgoth. Though you had claimed his title, she thought you a pretender... a failed servant who had imagined for himself some greater purpose. You were still weakened, Lord Sauron, and when your feigned kindness did not avail you, you thought instead to bend Hrímil to your will. How fortunate you were then that Durin would soon slay her brother, Thorog the Mighty, at Helegrod.... Once again I returned to the halls of the Steel Keep, and once again Hrímil denied you. The loss of Thorog wounded her greatly, but her will remained unbroken. It was then Hrímil swore that she would never serve you, Lord Sauron. And it was then you learned that Hrímil had devoured the Ring of Power, Tínya, along with the King of the Zhélruka who bore it. Diminished as you were, my lord, I have still not forgotten your fury. In the depths of Dol Guldur, you essayed to wield your craft-skill anew. You forged a massive chain and etched it with runes of fell magic. For such brazenness, Hrímil would not be your servant... she was to be your prisoner. Heedless of all peril, Hrímil had fallen into a deep slumber atop the hoards of the Steel Keep. Bound by your chains, Hrímil rose in sudden agony, shrieking as if she were consumed by unseen flame. Though she had devoured the Ring, Tínya still answered to its true master: Hrímil was yours at last. It would be many years before you shed the guise of the Necromancer, and so I imprisoned Hrímil beneath the razed remains of Barad-dûr to await your return. There, she endured countless tortures, but never did she surrender the Ring. Upon your return to Mordor, Barad-dûr rose anew and the Gaunt-lords crept out of the shadows of the Elder Days. One among them, Drugoth the Black, wielded the powers of necromancy, and it was then you devised your final vengeance against Hrímil Ring-eater. At your bidding, the Gaunt-lords laboured to draw a powerful fell-spirit into this realm. It was to be drawn to Helegrod where rested the remains of Hrímil's brother, Thorog the Mighty. Where Hrímil had resisted, Thorog would now serve in death. And so Thorog served, if but for a moment, and now the Gaunt-lords are banished and Thorog returned to death. You are defeated, Lord Sauron, and the hated Hrímil flies free... but not for long. You see, my lord, I will succeed where you have failed. I will turn the children of Hrímil against her, and she will serve me alone! Hrímil once said that you were a pretender, Lord Sauron. I think now she was right.

Vales of Anduin - Old Mad Ubb (Female Reader) Vales of Anduin - Old Mad Ubb (Male Reader)

By the Woodfolk Old Mad Ubb Now hear the lay of Old Mad Ubb Drowned his brother in the washing-tub Sunk his bones in the boggy pools Stole his silver, gold and jewels Caught a-thieving by his kin Cried cravenly to keep his skin Squawk and simper, squeal and sob, He fled a-howling from the mob They drove him deep into the bog Now he feasts on toad and frog Wriggling maggot, worm and grub: What a feast for Old Mad Ubb! For titbits tender still he yearns, With eyes that flare among the ferns: For foal and filly, kid and neat, And most of all, for children sweet. In blackest shadows, his eyes burn Rav’ning hungry to return Lurking among ling and shrub: Weeping, creeping Old Mad Ubb. When cold wind wails and fir-tree creaks, Through the gloom of night he sneaks. O’er wooden wall and rooftops thatched, Unlocked window, gate unlatched. Old Mad Ubb, so quick and deft, Snatches, catches, leaves bereft The mothers of the babes he claims And leaves them crying out their names. So bolt your doors, make fast the shutters, And listen for his moans and mutters. Then light your lantern, torch, or lamp, To drive him back to dark and damp. Somewhere yet he lurks and lingers, Scrabbling with his scabby fingers. ’Neath forest dark or dusky hill Old Mad Ubb, he hungers still. Keep close your sons and daughters dear Mind the moors and marshes drear For when the night grows black and cold Comes crawling Ubb the Mad and Old.

Laerlad - Tauralindalë

By Unknown Tauralindalë - Song of the Wood Anda i Lúna-taureva enyálië; Lúna i óri i yárë aldaron. Nordo ar neldo, sánë ar tasar Amárië andvaë randan fuinessë. Apa i vinya luina sír sirë, Sirë olla cemen, sirë olla ondo. Lencar i auri, núrar i lómi, Ai! i orontë avafanyar. Nén, a nén, tínala calima, Nén, tercáno cuiviëva ceutana! Oiovistala, visto ilyaron, Poito niëron ar saurana taurëo. Nainala alda, nainiët hlarelmë. Lertatyë lasta i sírëo alassë? I yernë yéni lennar lintiënen. I enwinar alcari ve hisië sintar. Allinta i luimë valima yassë Ilyë nwalmai cólar Eárenna. Long is the Black Wood’s memory Dark are the hearts of old trees; Oak and beech, pine and willow grey Have dwelt for an age in shadow Ah, but the new white stream flows, Flows over earth, flows over stone; The days are slow, the nights are deep But lo, comes the dawn without clouds Water, O water, bright-glinting, Water, herald of life renewed! Ever-changing, changer of all, Cleanser of tears and wood befouled. Mournful tree, we hear your lament. Can you hark to the river’s joy? The elder time passes swiftly; The glories of old fade as mist. Yet swifter is the blessed flood That carries all woes to the Sea.

Stop Reading
You close the book and place it back on the shelf.

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