Dwarven Echoes and a Healthy Dose of Fear

Gnikpaugh, despite his general lack of intellectual horsepower, possessed a surprisingly accurate internal map of what he considered “safe-ish” gnawing grounds versus “probably-get-eaten-by-something-big-and-toothy” zones. Lately, however, buoyed by his successes with “Ol’ Rusty,” his explorations had become decidedly more ambitious, pushing the boundaries of the former into areas that tickled the edges of the latter. It was during one such foray, deeper than we’d ever been, that the very character of the caverns began to change.

The rough-hewn, naturally eroded tunnels gave way to passages where the walls were too smooth, the angles too precise. We passed side tunnels reinforced with sturdy, if ancient, timber beams, and once, Gnikpaugh nudged a discarded pickaxe with his foot. It was heavy, expertly forged, and bore a maker’s mark I somehow recognized as belonging to a craft far beyond any goblin’s capability. The air, too, shifted. The usual damp, earthy smell of the Deep Deeps was overlaid with a faint, lingering aroma of something rich and malty, like old ale, and a curious, sweetish scent that reminded me of… well, I wasn’t sure what, but it felt distantly pleasant. Smoked meats, perhaps?

Gnikpaugh, however, did not find it pleasant. He sniffed the air, his already wide nostrils flaring further, and a look of pure, unadulterated terror began to dawn on his face.

“D…d…dwarfy-smells!” he stammered, his voice a panicked squeak. He spun around, ready to bolt. “Not good, Ol’ Rusty! Not good! Dwarfy-folk mean big stompy boots and pointy metal hats! And… and beards!” He seemed to find the concept of beards particularly horrifying.

Beards? I thought. That’s your primary concern? Not the superior weaponry or the likelihood of them viewing you as a particularly ugly form of vermin? Fascinatingly skewed priorities, even for you.

Before he could execute his tactical retreat (which usually involved him running in circles for a bit before falling over something), a sound reached us, faint but unmistakable, echoing from a passage further ahead: the rhythmic clang… CLANG of a heavy hammer on metal, followed by a booming, if distant, chorus of voices raised in a guttural, but surprisingly harmonious, song.

Gnikpaugh froze, his green skin taking on a paler, sicklier hue. He looked like he was about to be violently ill. “They SINGIN’!” he whispered, as if this were the ultimate proof of their malevolence. “Oh, bad, bad, bad!”

He grabbed me, not in his usual battle-ready grip, but clutching me to his chest like a child with a comfort blanket, and dove behind a pile of fallen rocks just as the source of the sounds grew louder. Through a narrow gap between two boulders, Gnikpaugh risked the tiniest, most terrified of peeks. And so, I saw them.

Dwarves. Three of them, marching down the corridor with a confident, ground-eating stride. They were stout, broad-shouldered, and clad in well-maintained scale mail and sturdy leather that gleamed in the light of the single lantern one of them carried. Their magnificent beards, braided and often adorned with silver rings, flowed down their chests. They carried heavy crossbows and hefty axes at their belts, their expressions stern and watchful. They moved with an air of order, of purpose, a stark contrast to Gnikpaugh’s usual chaotic meandering.

As they passed, their lantern light briefly illuminated the worked stone of the tunnel walls, the precise angles, the sturdy buttresses. And looking at their craftsmanship, at the solid, no-nonsense design of their gear, I felt it again – that strange, unexpected flicker of… resonance. Not like the forge-flash memory, but a quieter sense of familiarity, of rightness. As if some part of me understood this level of skill, this dedication to making things strong and true.

Well, these fellows certainly know their stonework, I observed internally, as Gnikpaugh trembled beside me, making my view wobble. And their beards! Magnificent. Gnikpaugh's chin-fluff could take lessons. Though, on second thought, perhaps not. The universe might not be ready for a well-groomed Gnikpaugh.

The dwarves passed without noticing us, their song fading slowly into the distance. Only when the last echo had died did Gnikpaugh dare to breathe again, letting out a long, shaky sigh.

Now, if we could just admire them from significantly further away, I added, as Gnikpaugh finally un-clutched me from his terrified embrace, leaving a rather damp patch on my hilt. Preferably several cave systems further away. My constitution isn't what it used to be. Assuming I ever had one. The encounter, brief as it was, left me with a new set of questions, and that persistent, nagging feeling of a past I couldn't quite grasp.