The Gilded Depths & The Crimson Desire

The air in King Throrin Goldfist’s private counting chamber, deep within the granite heart of Mount Hearthstone, was thick with the metallic tang of gold and the fainter, earthy scent of old stone. It was a cramped space, not for lack of grander halls above, but by Throrin’s own preference – the oppressive proximity of his wealth was a comfort. Mountains of coins, rivers of gemstones, and meticulously stacked ingots pressed in from every side, the flickering lamplight catching on their facets until the very walls seemed to sweat avarice. Throrin, a dwarf whose considerable girth was rivaled only by the legendary weight of his treasury, sat hunched over a scarred stone table. His jeweled fingers, like fat, glittering spiders, danced across a fresh pile of gold nuggets, weighing each one with a focused grunt.

“Another six measures short of the projected yield from Vein Seven, Borgrum!” His voice, a gravelly rasp accustomed to booming through vast caverns, was tight with displeasure. Borgrum, the Chief Mining Overseer, a dwarf whose face seemed permanently etched with anxiety, flinched.

“Your Majesty, the vein narrows unexpectedly. The stone grows harder. We—”

“Harder?” Throrin slammed a fist, rattling a nearby tray of uncut rubies. “Then your miners will strike harder! Or find a softer path to my gold! Results, Borgrum, are all that glitter in my eyes.” He swept a particularly large nugget into a velvet-lined coffer, the click of the latch a sound more satisfying to him than any symphony. Such was the way of Mount Hearthstone; while all dwarves cherished the earth’s bounty, King Throrin Goldfist didn’t just cherish it – he consumed it, absorbed it, his spirit seemingly plated in the precious metals he hoarded far beyond any conceivable need.

His gaze drifted to a small, intricately carved obsidian bowl on a nearby pedestal. Nestled within were not gems, but a handful of plump, ruby-red fruits, their skins gleaming with an almost unnatural vibrancy in the lamplight. These were his other gluttony, the singular soft indulgence in his hard, metallic world: the Crimson Comforts from the distant Red Kingdom. With a sigh that was almost a purr, he picked one up, its delicate weight a stark contrast to the gold he’d just handled. He bit into it, the sweet, tangy juice a burst of exotic pleasure.

“At least these arrive with their promised fullness,” he muttered, juice staining his gold-shot beard. He savored the fruit slowly, ostentatiously, his eyes half-closed. It was a ritual, a display of his ability to command even the delicate luxuries of the outside world.

The brief moment of contentment was interrupted. A lesser foreman, Gorin, shifted nervously at the chamber’s entrance, Borgrum having signaled him forward. “Your Majesty,” Gorin began, his voice thin, “a word from the ‘Deep Deeps,’ if I may? After the last blasting charge in the lowest exploratory tunnel… there was an echo, Sire. But not… not like a normal echo. More a… a resonance. And then a silence that felt… wrong. The crew is uneasy.”

Throrin’s eyes snapped open, his brief pleasure forgotten. He licked the last of the fruit’s sweetness from his thick lips, his gaze already hardening. “Resonance? Silence?” he scoffed, tossing the fruit’s core towards a waste pile already overflowing with similar remnants. “Echoes don’t fill coffers, Foreman! And silence doesn’t glitter! Find me more gold, or find yourselves a new King who tolerates excuses. Now, out! Both of you! Unless you’ve brought me something that shines!” He gestured impatiently towards the door, his mind already returning to the comforting, quantifiable weight of his hoard, the unsettling whispers from the mountain's belly dismissed as easily as a spent fruit.