Close Encounters of the Bearded Kind

The transition was gradual, then suddenly acute. One moment we were in the familiar, chaotic tunnels of the unworked Deep Deeps; the next, the passages were wider, the ceilings higher, the walls showing the unmistakable marks of pick and chisel. Regularly spaced niches held the charred remains of old torches or, occasionally, a still-burning, oil-fed dwarven lantern that cast a steady, orange glow, a stark contrast to the fickle luminescence of the fungi we were used to. The air hummed with a distant, rhythmic industry – the clang of metal on stone, the rumble of unseen machinery, the faint, earthy scent of coal smoke. We had arrived in the Upper Mines, the fringes of dwarven domain.

Gnikpaugh, who had been a bundle of nerves about the "Big Cold," now transformed into a bundle of nerves about "Big Beards." He moved with a hunched, furtive shuffle, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, which for a goblin was saying something. His initial plan of boldly scavenging "easy shinies" seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a more realistic ambition: not getting stomped into a green paste.

“Shhh, Ol’ Rusty,” he’d whisper, though I hadn’t made a sound (being, you know, a dagger). “Dwarfy-folk got big ears. And big noses for sniffin’ out goblins.”

And big axes for… well, you get the idea, I added internally. Your current strategy of ‘tremble conspicuously in the shadows’ could use some work.

It was during these tense explorations that my role as Gnikpaugh’s unofficial early warning system and evasion coordinator became paramount. His idea of stealth was to occasionally trip over his own feet and then freeze like a startled rabbit, usually in the most exposed spot imaginable.

The first close call came when he was attempting to pry a loose, shiny pebble (which I suspected was just a bit of quartz) from a wall with my tip – an act of abuse I was silently protesting. A sudden, sharp intuitive jolt from me, a pure wave of focused ‘DANGER!’, made him yelp and dive headfirst into a pile of discarded mining refuse – mostly rock dust, broken pick handles, and something that smelled alarmingly like week-old dwarven socks. Not a moment too soon. A patrol of three heavily armed dwarves, their lanterns swinging, marched past the end of the alcove, their gruff voices echoing as they discussed ore quotas.

Honestly, Gnikpaugh, I fumed from within the sock-scented darkness, if your life depended on being subtle, you'd have been reincarnated as a particularly loud fungus by now. Good thing you've got me to play 'seeing-eye dagger.' And no, that pebble is not worth becoming dwarven target practice.

Another time, he nearly blundered into a lone dwarven engineer who was meticulously checking the integrity of a massive timber support beam. The dwarf, humming a surprisingly cheerful, if off-key, tune, had his back to us. Gnikpaugh, spotting a discarded crust of bread near the dwarf’s discarded toolkit, began to creep forward, his eyes gleaming with larcenous intent. I had to "scream" at him again, a concentrated burst of mental alarm so strong it made him stumble and freeze in a patch of deeper shadow just as the dwarf turned, stretched, and surveyed the tunnel before resuming his work.

During these enforced stillnesses, I got to truly see their craftsmanship. The way the support beams were perfectly interlocked, the precise angles of the dressed stone in the archways, the sturdy, functional design of their tools and lanterns – it all spoke of a deep, ingrained skill, a respect for materials, and a dedication to making things that lasted. It was a far cry from the haphazard, make-do-and-mend philosophy of goblin existence. That strange resonance I’d felt before, that sense of familiarity, deepened into a grudging, then genuine, admiration. Someone, somewhere, had instilled in me – or the being I once was – an appreciation for this kind of solid, purposeful creation.

Look at that archway! I’d marvel internally, as Gnikpaugh trembled nearby. Flawless keystone. These dwarves really know their business. The joinery on that beam alone is a work of art. If I could whistle, it would be appreciatively. Pity their aesthetic doesn’t extend to their choice of subterranean pests