The home of the Dwarves and the bane of Orcus

The Gate District

The city's gate, a colossal archway carved directly into the heart of the mountain, speaks to the audacity and the elemental defiance of the dwarven race. It stands in monolithic grandeur, a poignant symbol of Dun'Haldur's indomitable spirit.

At the threshold of this great city, one finds the immense brass doors, towering guardians weathered by countless years yet standing resolute. Crafted in a bygone era, their surfaces are embossed with intricate reliefs. The narratives of dwarven heroes locked in epic struggles with mythical beasts spring forth from the brass, their tales immortalized in the hands of master dwarven artisans. Each figure, every etched line speaks of a heroic deed, a testament to the relentless spirit that beats within the heart of each dwarf.

Beyond these impressive doors, the Gate District unfurls itself, revealing a bastion of dwarven ingenuity and resilience. The district, much like the city itself, is an architectural symphony in stone. Ramparts, fortifications, and watchtowers dot the landscape, each a tribute to the dwarven mastery of stonework, their forms seemingly growing organically from the heart of the mountain.

Arntorhim, the Forgeheart

Beyond the immense grandeur of the Gates, one steps into the vast amphitheater of Dun’Haldur, the city's throbbing core. An awe-inspiring expanse of towering stone columns and intricately carved archways open before you. This is none other than the heart of the city, the district known in the dwarven tongue as Arntorhrim, the Forgeheart.

In the Forgeheart, the stalwart dwarves mold and shape the very essence of the mountain, crafting artifacts and machinery of such intricate design and exceptional quality that they surpass the realm of the practical, becoming works of art in their own right. Each crafted piece is not merely a product of skilled hands, but also of stalwart hearts, representing the culmination of tradition, innovation, and an unwavering commitment to perfection.

At the core of Arntorhrim, amidst the labyrinth of industrial marvels and intricate gearworks, lies the colossal marvel known as the Magmahold Forge. An awe-inspiring feat of dwarven engineering, it stands as a monument to their mastery of the elemental forces, a vivid symbol of their unwavering resolve to bend the indomitable to their will. The Magmahold Forge, bathed in a primordial glow, is powered by the very lifeblood of the mountain: the molten fury that surges beneath Dunhaldur's stony bones. Its ceaseless energy is harnessed by a complex network of sturdy iron pipes and bronze valves, a testament to the dwarves' prodigious engineering prowess. These channels divert a portion of the raging magma into the belly of the forge, creating an unfathomable heat that dwarven blacksmiths use to work the hardest ores and craft the finest of alloys.

The forge is not a mere stationary smelter but a wonder of automation. A veritable forest of whirling gears, hissing pistons, and rhythmic hammers animate its imposing structure. A labyrinth of machinery, each component meticulously designed and flawlessly integrated, works in perfect harmony to maintain the Forge's relentless rhythm. Steam, birthed from the fiery embrace of magma and water, is the life-force of this mechanized giant. It drives the pistons, turns the gears, and imbues the Forge with an uncanny semblance of life.

Surrounding the Magmahold Forge are specialized enclaves, each dedicated to a specific craft. The Gearhallow, home to the city's ingenious engineers, buzzes with the sound of mechanical marvels. The Hammerdell, a thoroughfare lined with smithies, rings with the symphony of hammers on anvils. The Runeshold, a quieter district, hums with the subtle resonance of runic magic, as rune-smiths etch powerful glyphs onto weapons and artifacts.

Thaneholm

Beneath the veil of the mountain, where the flickering glow of countless braziers paints dancing shadows upon the walls, resides the venerable domain known as the Thaneholme. This district, tucked away within the fortress of Dun'Haldur, is a labyrinthine tapestry of winding streets, interwoven passages, homely taverns, and compact homes chiseled with consummate skill by innumerable generations of stalwart dwarven hands.

Upon entering Thaneholme, one is struck by the profound gravity of history that permeates its very stonework. The walls of the dwellings, akin to time-worn manuscripts, bear the painstaking etchings of familial chronicles. These narratives trace the birthright and deeds of countless dwarf clans, their victories and tribulations, their exploits and craftsmanship, all laid bare in meticulous detail upon the unyielding stone.

The imposing vaulted ceilings of the Thaneholme are a canvas of epic bas-reliefs, their surfaces teeming with valiant dwarf heroes locked in fierce combat against mythical beasts or engaged in the somber rituals of ancient dwarven rites. These grand stone narratives are illuminated by the warm, comforting glow of firelight, casting complex interplays of light and shadow upon their intricate detail and adding a breathtaking sense of depth and dynamism.

The Iron Summit

Situated at the grandest heights of Dun'Haldur, forming a stark counterpoint to the city's shadowed depths, stands the prestigious enclave known as the Iron Summit. A fortress of governance, wisdom, and the collective will of the dwarven clans, the Summit is a symphony of grand halls and centuries-old meeting rooms. Its centermost edifice is the Conclave Hall, a marvel of dwarven architecture hewn into the mountain's highest peak.

The Conclave Hall’s open façade, a daring feat of dwarven engineering, lays bare a panorama of the savage northern wilderness stretching far beyond the horizon. This magnificent view unveils a tapestry of majestic pine forests bowing to the whims of the northern winds, of jagged cliffs defiantly resisting the onslaught of the roaring sea, of snow-capped mountain ranges clawing at the heavens, their peaks kissed by the first light of dawn and the last hues of twilight. It is a vista that speaks to the primal beauty of the world, a testament to the vast expanses tamed by dwarven will and the solemn duty shouldered by the councilors in their stewardship.

The Iron Summit is more than an isolated fortress of authority; it is the pulsating heart of Dun'Haldur, a stage where decisions are deliberated, verdicts echoed, and strategic negotiations murmured in hushed tones. Dwarf scribes, the custodians of the city's history and wisdom, tirelessly etch on parchment with quills as sharp as their minds, preserving the decisions of the present and the wisdom of the past.

Protecting these sacred halls with an unwavering sense of duty are the Gromril Guard, the stalwart defenders of the Iron Summit. Encased in intricately designed armor, each guard casts an imposing silhouette, their presence a testament to their unwavering resolve. Each breastplate is adorned with ancient runic symbols, each etching a story of individual heroism, personal sacrifice, and lineage honor. The starkly unadorned helms embody their unyielding allegiance to the Council and their collective duty over personal glory.

The Mines

Each tunnel extends into the unfathomable depths, a web spun not by nature, but by the will of its inhabitants. The ceaseless chime of pickaxes echoes throughout, their notes the heartbeat of the city, resonating in a rhythm as relentless as time itself.

This formidable netherworld is illuminated by the pale luminescence of spectral fungi, their ghoulish light casting a veil of twilight over the monumental spectacle of industry. It bathes the dwarves in an otherworldly glow, their shadows dancing upon the rock face as they toil away, a spectral ballet of light and shadow, each silhouette a tribute to the dwarves' unwavering labor.

The air here is heavy with the essence of raw earth, a heady concoction of stone, mineral, and the acrid tang of honest sweat, permeating the senses with an intoxicating reminder of the relentless pursuit of prosperity. Within the bowels of these profound depths, the dwarves wrest from the mountain's steadfast embrace precious ores and invaluable gems, commodities as much a lifeblood to them as the very air they breathe.

The Mines are more than a place of work, they are a life force. Monolithic machines of steam and iron, fashioned through the dwarves' ingenuity, gnash and roar as they aid in the monumental task of resource extraction. Groaning mine carts, loaded to the brink with the mountain's bounty, rattle along iron tracks, their ceaseless journey a symbol of the city's life cycle, from the raw veins of The Mines to the scorching forges of the Forgeheart.

The Markets

Situated in the intricate knot of passageways that thread Dun'Haldur together, like veins of precious ore in the heart of the mountain, are The Markets. A spectacle of raw life and commerce, they echo the constant rhythm of the city's heart in the depth of its bones. Here, merchants, craftsmen, and traders from all the districts converge in a colorful symphony of trade, their voices woven into a harmonious chaos that rumbles throughout the mountain's chambers.

The sense of the place is nothing less than overwhelming. The murmur of haggling is set against a backdrop of exotic odors - a sensory cacophony of hot metal and cool gems, freshly baked bread warm from the ovens of Thror's Hearth, pungent spices brought from far-off lands by adventurous traders, and the omnipresent scent of earth and stone, a testament to Dun'Haldur's mountainous womb. The symphony of clanging coins, chattering voices, and the rustle of hands exchanging goods add a vibrant staccato to this symphony, the rhythm of trade that never ceases from dawn till dusk.

Yet The Markets are not confined to these bustling passages. Amid the forgotten relics of Dun'Haldur's past, within the colossal shell of an ancient steam-powered mining behemoth, lies a more obscure market. Known only to those who dare to venture into the twilight margins of the city, the "Underbelly Market" is a place where the unusual, the illicit, and the strange, find their buyers.

Inside this behemoth of steel and rust, the atmosphere takes on a denser quality. The fungi-dappled light takes on an otherworldly glow, casting long shadows that dance and flicker on the cavernous walls. Stalls huddle in the shadowy recesses, brimming with forbidden relics, uncanny artifacts, and rare, peculiar flora and fauna from the unfathomable depths of the mountain. Here, the scents are earthier, the chatter subdued, and the trades more discreet. The feeling is of an exciting secrecy, a thrilling awareness that one is in the underbelly of the beast, a place that teeters on the edge of the lawful and the lawless.

Kuldrukar, The Hall of Grudges

Hidden beneath the deepest mines, broods the formidable Kuldrukar, the Hall of Grudges. This hallowed site, veiled in a shroud of solemnity and dread, is a secret known only to a select few. It stands as a silent testament to the dwarves' timeless honour and enduring memory, a place where ancient grudges are settled, justice delivered, and scores etched in the ledger of history are ultimately balanced.

Enveloped in the profound gloom of the mountain's core, Kuldrukar is an awe-inspiring sight. Dwarfed by the cavernous expanse surrounding it, the Hall is an architectural masterpiece, carved from the mountain's stone heart in a time long past. Its monolithic facade is adorned with intricate bas-reliefs, each a record of a grudge settled, a tale of justice meted out according to the unforgiving laws of the ancients.

Tall, imposing pillars of unyielding stone, inscribed with the sacred runes of justice, support a vaulted ceiling that seems to touch the very roots of the mountain. Countless torches cast a spectral illumination, their flickering light revealing the haunting visages of stone dwarves, their eyes seemingly alive with the fire of vindication. Their stern expressions reflect the severity and finality of the justice dealt within these hallowed walls.

Gloomgleam Hollow

This is the Gloomgleam Hollow, the city's underbelly, a titanic cavern blanketed in twilight, is lit by vast forests of phosphorescent fungi. Their neon glow, eerie and alluring, paints the sprawling network of ramshackle dwellings, raucous alehouses, and clandestine establishments in strokes of ghostly luminescence, a stark contrast to the structured grandeur seen above. In this undulating labyrinth of stone and shadow, the city's grittier residents seek refuge, their thirst for freedom and abandon echoing in the labyrinthine alleys like a primal howl.

Chief among the Hollow's points of interest is the "Groggy Gorgon", a venerable tavern nestled amidst the serpentine twists of a shadowy alley. The tavern, brimming with patrons from all walks of life, is an ode to the tenacity of the city's spirit. Their raucous laughter and jovial banter mingle with the smoky tendrils of pipe-weed, swirling under the vaulted ceilings, a defiant dance of mirth and camaraderie against the world above.

Beyond the foggy windows of the Groggy Gorgon, the Hollow unfolds in a seemingly endless spectacle of revelry and resilience. Brutish laughter echoes from the fighting pits where burly miners test their mettle against monstrous beasts from the mountain's depths. Tucked away in shadowed corners, secretive establishments cater to every conceivable vice, their discreet patrons pursuing illicit delights with a desperate fervor.

Craglock Rift

Deep below the deepest mine, past where any light can touch and past even the Underdark itself there lies what appears to be a simple stone pedestal before a giant dwarven-hewn stone door locked in place not just from the centuries of crushing pressure as the mountains settle above it, but from a deep and unwavering magic that holds it fast. Behind the door one can sometimes feel the pulsating invisible force of some monstrous entity behind the door trying to escape, if one were fool enough to venture this far under the ground, that is. This is the Craglock Rift. The stories say that before the time of mortals, the great demon lord, Orcus, saw the creations of the other gods and imagined a way to twist death into a foul mockery of life. He created an undead army from the bits of corpses that the creations of the gods left behind and attempted to overthrow all of Cronus. Unable to kill the demon lord, Moradin, the All-Father, cast him into hell through Craglock Rift and tossed the Dun'Haldur mountains atop it so that it would never open again. He then tasked his creation, the dwarves, with keeping that door shut, and so they have for 10,000 years. Ever is there a watchful eye upon the deep, cavernous route that leads to the pedestal and the door. No less than six guards are posted at its entrance at any given time and no one is ever allowed passage except for two of those guards at a time who venture down only to check when a magical sensor has warned them of the presence of life. Usually this life ends up being a worm or a slug or some burrowing creature that has accidentally dug into the wrong hole.