The Withering Branch & The Spark of Wrath

Weeks later, the grand gates of Mount Hearthstone groaned open not to admit a triumphant caravan laden with Crimson Comforts, but a haggard, dust-caked party of traders, their wagons starkly, shockingly empty. The news they bore, delivered haltingly by their shaken leader to a stunned Royal Court, was of a Red Kingdom inexplicably blighted, its famed orchards withered, its people scattered or starving. The ruby-red fruits were no more.

A stunned silence gripped the throne room, a silence King Throrin Goldfist shattered with a roar that seemed to shake the very stone around them. He launched himself from his gilded throne, his ornate drinking horn – moments before anticipating a celebratory refill of fruit wine – crashing against the stone floor, scattering shards of polished horn and inlaid gems.

“No more?” he bellowed, his face empurpling, veins standing out like dark mountain rivers on his temples. “No more?! They dare? This is… this is an outrage! An insult!” His fist slammed onto the armrest of his throne, the gold groaning under the impact. His deeply ingrained gluttony, so suddenly and completely thwarted, had found no outlet but the searing heat of pure fury. This was not just the loss of a delicacy; it was a personal affront, a disruption to the very order of his world.

Murmurs of dismay and anger rippled through the assembled dwarves. They too felt the sting of this deprivation. The Crimson Comforts had been a cherished part of their privileged lives, a sweet counterpoint to the endless toil in the deeps. Throrin, sensing their shared frustration, saw his opening. His eyes, moments before wild with personal rage, narrowed with a calculating gleam.

He ascended the dais once more, his voice now a powerful, resonant instrument of indignation. “Hear me, dwarves of Hearthstone!” he thundered, his gaze sweeping the hall. “This is no mere misfortune! This is a… a withholding! A theft of what is rightfully ours to enjoy! Shall we, the masters of the mountain, the wealthiest kingdom beneath the peaks, be denied by the… the failure of surface dwellers?” He spat the last words with contempt.

“They hoard what little remains, I tell you!” he lied, the accusation forming even as he spoke it, his own insatiable desire projecting itself onto the unknown plight of the Red Kingdom. “Or perhaps they have grown too lazy, too complacent to provide! Either way, Mount Hearthstone will not be denied!”

A roar of agreement went up. Their king had given their collective disappointment a target, a focus for their simmering resentment.

“We shall send forth the might of Hearthstone!” Throrin proclaimed, his voice ringing with conviction. “Our warriors will march! They will find these fruits, wherever they may be hidden! They will secure the means of their production! We shall teach these… these surface dwellers the price of denying Hearthstone its due!” He raised a clenched fist, the jewels on his rings flashing like baleful stars.

Amidst the ensuing clamor of war preparations – the ringing of hammers on anvils forging new axe heads, the chanting of ancient battle hymns – a grim-faced Borgrum, the Chief Mining Overseer, attempted to approach the throne with a fresh concern.

“Your Majesty,” Borgrum began, his voice strained, “another matter… young Bram, from the third delving crew in the Deep Deeps… he’s not reported back from his shift. His lamp was found, but…”

Throrin, already envisioning his triumphant warriors returning laden with Crimson Comforts, waved a dismissive hand, his mind far from the dark, workaday tunnels below. “One clumsy fool falls down a shaft while Hearthstone is openly defied and its honor challenged?” he snapped, turning to bellow orders to his general. “Find him or forget him, Borgrum, but do not distract me with trifles! The Bloodied Axe Brigade prepares to march! That is all that matters now!”