The Song of Thafar-gathol

Description

The Song of Thafar-gathol is a poem found in seven panels on the walls of a hidden chamber in Khîl's Home, written using the Felak Karâth runes. It is a song of lament for the fall of the legendary lost Zhélruka city of Thafar-gathol.

The poem consists of fourteen stanzas, two per panel. The text of the first eight stanzas can be uncovered during the quest Lost Lore of the Dwarf-holds: Ered Mithrin. The last two stanzas are repeated by the shade of Ingór I the Cruel in the Anvil of Winterstith. The remaining four stanzas appear only in Khîl's Home.

Translation

Multiple players contributed to this translation.

Note that a couple words differ between this version and the Lost Lore version.

	Original	Transcription
1
2
3
4
5
6
7

1
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 our own.

2
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 burning ever-hot!

3
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.

4
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.

5
For in the dimness of the deep
A shadowed shape did stir from sleep.
He woke the worm-kin well past number,
Avowing to avenge his slumber.

With clutching claws and baleful breath
The dragons dealt out doom and death,
And when their wanton wrath had waned,
No relic of those halls remained.

6
Ages since our stock have sought
For trace or track, unearthing nought.
We delved new dwellings, looked for lore,
Yet failed to find those halls of yore.

We searched and scoured, and serpents slew,
But now our folk are tired and few,
And still it bides beyond recall:
Lonely, lost Thafar-gathol.

7
The harps are gone, the fires are out,
The shadows gather all about,
Yet from the north and far away
Still sounds the song of Mountains Grey.

King or common, fool or clever,
It lures us always, tempting ever.
Brothers, can you hear the call
Of long-lamented Thafar-gathol?