Did you read Icilio?

Ellsto won one, but no one got his PBF. Not sure what his role was or if it was really that good.

Yuno won, and I reread it. It was not my best work.

This was a good one:

The Diary of Leeshun Al'kur, Father of Dryaven

19th day of the Month of Sorrows
The Underdark

Dear Boy,

Pride? Strength? Honor? Do we, the dark dwarves know these things? I am no philosopher or great warrior but I know there is infinite value to these traits. They are the binding of the great civilizations. Look at the pride of the other races - each of them a society with great heroes, traditions and culture. Even the hated surface dwarves, sad am I to admit it. But we the duergar… we are but thieves and mercenaries with no sense of self.

I am but a blacksmith. Not a man of significance or standing but I am solid in my convictions. I take pride in my craft, the weapons and armor it produces. Maybe I overcharge when I can, sure - but the goods are fine quality. Finer than that fool Tarni of Dagdan whose shoddy smithing besmirches the reputation of duergar smiths everywhere.

Who am I to speak these things? They would cut my tongue were I to utter such inclinations aloud. And what, dear boy, would they do to you? I must be silent, for I am nothing. You though… you could be so much more than I ever dared be. If you rose to be a great General or Warmaster they would hear your words.

I can not teach you much. You will work the forge and, damn you, you will work it well. It will teach you the Strength and Pride I cannot. Then, when you are ready, I shall wrench you from my heart and send you to the great civilizations to learn the things my humble forge alone can not teach you.

All my love.
Your Father.

------

Dryaven awakes to the familiar sound of his father's bellowing.

"Get ya lazy ARSE outta BED you worthless piece of shit!"

Before Dryaven can blink the sleep from his eyes he feels the pop and ring of his father's palm boxing his ear. The young duergar, barely more than a toddler, bolts upright in an eager effort to avoid the next blow. Throwing his feet off his bedroll he tries to find his bearings with as much speed as he can muster.

A firm boot in his rear propels him painfully toward the door of his room.

"Get ya DAMN hammer an' smock, BOY. It's time ta get ta WORK."

This is pretty much how days begin for young Dryaven. Those days, long and painful, do not relent in their later hours. Dryaven will work the bellows, lift barrels of ingots and bars of metal far too heavy for his size. He will do it all while enduring the burns of the fire, the blows, and the impossibly high standards of his father.

It is a hard life and one that breeds only hatred in his heart. Hatred for the forge, hatred for his wretched circumstance and most of all hatred for his father. This is the way it will be all the long days of childhood and early adolescence.

=====

The Diary of Leeshun Al'kur, Father of Dryaven

33rd day of the Month of Whispers
The Underdark

Dear Boy,

How wonderful you are! The forge has planted the right seeds in you, I know it. Of all the things I've forged in this life you are the finest. No metal could bear the fire you know. No breastplate could have your strength. No blade's edge could hold the sharpness of your mind.

What a fine smith you have become as well! Even as an apprentice with too few winters your craftsmanship is better than near any I have seen. In time, short time I think, you will surpass even me. Your work will make even the dwarves hang their hammers, pick up the needle, and fashion dresses for Elven ladyhood. I know it's true.

Yet today my heart is heavy. Each breath is a laborious torment. Today, I know, is the day I must let you go. My own selfishness would keep you here with me all my days. Alas, your light is too bright, dear son. If you are to be the leader I know you can be you must go and learn the things no one in the realms of duergar can teach you.

All over Thera are forges. In some burn the fires of allies, in some the fires of foes. You will go to all of them, in chains if you must, and learn what you can from their societies. I will bribe where I can, lie where I must, and rescue you if I need.

Without you here my days will be but empty shells. I shall long for your company and barter with the dark gods in prayer for your safety. Dryaven, you are my heart.

Your Father.

----

Dryaven didn't understand it the day it happened. Wordlessly his father clubbed him over the head with the butt of his hammer. When he awoke he saw an unfamiliar blur of all too bright light. Blinking his way to consciousness he made a startling realization.

He was outside! On the surface! A mix of fear and wonderment gripped him as he breathed his first deep breaths of clean, clear air. His eyes hurt as he tried to adjust to the light of what he could only assume to be the sun. What was he doing here?

"What in da blazes?!" came an unfamiliar and odd sounding voice. Dryaven turned to see three armored figures hastily walking to him. Oh no! Dwarves! He tried to stand, to break and run, but his legs were still wobbly from his father's blow and the dwarves caught him easily.

"It's a bloody fargin' DUERGAR snot!"

With that they clasped him into irons and promptly escorted him to the dungeons of castle Akan. Sitting there alone and frightened in his cell he was incredulous. His father had… betrayed him! Left him to a dwarven prison! He knew his father held him in nothing but disdain. After years of hearing that he was worthless, that his work was shit, that he would amount to nothing he knew what a colossal disappointment he was. But this? He could never have imagined this would be the legacy his father left him.

After some years in the cell a new Warden initiated a work program in the prison. Each inmate would be sent, under close guard, to work in the city. A very few would be selected for work in the skilled trades. And, sure enough, one day Nikaulta the blacksmith came to fetch Dryaven (still in chains) to work the bellows of the forge.

Nikaulta was far from kindly to Dryaven but even working in chains with a sworn enemy the days were much easier than the days in his father's forge. He was allowed to rest, fed decent gruel and even occasionally allowed a mug of ale to celebrate a Dwarven holiday.

It turned out that Nikaulta wasn't exactly the model dwarves citizen. Part of Dryaven's work was a secret known only to he and Nikaulta. He crafted very ornate, jeweled flails that would be passed to young adventurers and eventually end up in the hands of a duergar in Aldevari named Gralan. Dryaven made the perfect fall-guy. For if one of these adventurers were caught by the guard the blame would be placed squarely on the young duergar… and he alone.

Dryaven assumed that he would spend the remainder of his days under lock and key doing his recondite work for Nikaulta. It was not to be. One day he was carted off on some sort of prisoner exchange program to Darsylon - where under close guard he worked the forges crafting light mail and arrowheads.

After a time The elves sent him to the storm giants, though for what cause he could never figure out. The depths of the sea do not make for hot fires.

The storm giants did not hold him long before trading him to the cloud giants in payment for a fortifying mercenary force they had provided. It was there, under the less of earnest guard of neutral forces, that he was able to conspire with other prisoners and manage an escape.

Said escape was orchestrated by fire giants from Kiadanah-Rah and in payment Dryaven was indentured there for a time. For whatever reason the giants traded his servitude off to the gnomes of Hillcrest where he spent a several years forging keys and locks.

It was in Hillcrest that he was first ever to feel free. Dryaven very much liked the gnomes. By comparison to his father and Nikaulta their indifference felt like lavish attention. When the gnomes found him an eager student they taught him about all manner of things. Magic, metallurgy, astronomy, tactics, politics, sociology, biology, orienteering - to the amazement of the gnomes, though a slow study, he eventually absorbed it all like a thirsty sponge.

The nature of politics and sociology appealed to Dryaven's orderly nature. The lessons on tactics and the use of weapons appealed to his hatred. When he asked for more training in melee the gnomes suggested he travel to their cousins the svirfneblin.

The svirfneblin were happy to take him in for a time because of the level of his craftsmanship. With them Dryaven forged everything from ore carts to battle-axes. In return they taught him how to use daggers, swords, maces and all the weapons of Thera. When Dryaven's questions on strategy surpassed the understanding of even the Barrow-Warden, they suggested he might learn such things from the dark-elves.

Thus he he came to work for the dark-elves making jewelry for the ladies of noble houses. In the dark-elven city women ruled everything. Men were a second class of citizen. Foreign men were lower still. But, the warrior school of Teth'Azreth held up their end of the deal and begrudgingly taught him the science, logistics and tactics behind leading large forces in return for his work in their forges.

Finally full of knowledge and desire for vengeance it was time to unleash his hatred for his father. The gates of Teth'Azreth to his back he made his way to duergar lands. His arrival brought him only disappointment. His father, he was told, had been executed only a day before. Apparently he had failed for too long to pay the tributes and taxes demanded by duergar leadership.

None the less Dryaven found his way back to his father's forge. It had already gone cold, the tools removed in payment for his father's debts. The Anvil, and all the memories, were still there. Fuming with rage Dryaven pounded his fist on the cold steel of his father's anvil. This was his father's final betrayal, to deny him the pleasure of revenge.

With all his might he strained against the anvil, his anger pushing his body against it's weight. To Dryaven's surprise it first shifted then tipped revealing a hidden compartment. In it was a simple, leather-bound book.

======

Dryaven's eyes were wide with amazement as he thumbed the pages of his father's diary. He read each word wondering if he asleep or under a spell. The eerie silence of the cold forge only sped the racing of his mind.

He read words like, "You are my heart. I am so proud of you. You have such potential." If he did not know his father's hand so well he would be assured it was some cruel hoax. The final entry in his father's journal told the tale.

The Diary of Leeshun Al'kur, Father of Dryaven

1st day of the Month of Flowers
The Underdark

Dear Boy,

I fear these will be the last words my heart shall send you. I know not if they, or the other messages in this diary, will reach you. Perhaps it is better they never do. Soon the guard will discover I paid my taxes in fool's gold. It will mean my death, but that is a worthy price to have born witness to what you've accomplished.

The hardest day of my life was the day I gave you up to those dwarves. I struggled with it daily, lying awake nights, my bed a sweaty place of torment. In your first years there, before I could put my plans in motion, I knew you were rotting away in that dungeon. Many times I carried my warhammer to the base of Akan Mountain set to have you back. Alas, I knew what must be done.

We owe a great debt to Gralan, who for a hefty price was able to get you to Nikaulta's forge. We then were able to bribe Nikaulta into brokering a deal with the elves to send you there - then hold ransom an elf in order to get them to trade you to the storm giants.

I had to pay a band of damn, double-dipping cloud giants to trade you from the storm giants. They were paid for a mercenary band by the storm giants and paid again by me to take you. It was simple enough to pay the Fire giants who helped you escape and took your indenture.

The gnomes took the highest price. Your passage from Kiadana to Hillcrest alone nearly bankrupted the forge. But you blossomed so much there I knew it was worth every copper.

I bribed where I had to, begged if I thought it would help and steered your path all the way to the dark-elves. By then I knew my debts to be insurmountable. My only relief was knowing that my greatest goals were to be realized. When they… come for me… my death will not be an easy one. Your memory and my hope for your future will be the only relief from the pain they will inflict upon me.

From each of the civilizations you have gained invaluable knowledge and wisdom. I pray you use it, and your tremendous potential to soar to heights I cannot now imagine.

Dear boy, I know I was hard on you. I loved you the only way a duergar father can - but know that I loved you with all my heart. You have given me great pride. Now, go forth and see that my sacrifice was not in vain.

Fare Well.
Father.

Dryaven could scarcely believe the words. There in the crushing silence of the empty forge he allowed himself to do something he had never done in all the years of hardship.

He wept.