Tooth & Stone

"There weren't always dragons in The Valley. Once we were in the sun me boy and we shined...we shined brighter than any fire yer pipsqueak eyes have ever seen."

He spoke softly to me, the light from the Great Chimney exaggerating his misshapen face, a mask of dirt and stress weighing his squished head low to the ground. Great pauses filled the gaps in his words, the intensity of his tone proving the silence deafening. Father turned to me with the great orange glow still swallowing his sturdy frame, the firelight shading his beard a violent citrine, the iron-grey strands of speckled beard-hair aged by time and all that comes with it still prominent. I'm terrified. Had he finally made his mind? The old king reached across and held my shoulder, trying to comfort me from the unbearable burden he was giving his only heir. I felt the roughness of his oversized paw on the side of my neck, the telltale brilliant violet of deepsilver veins flaring to the surface, reacting to the touch. The king leaned in, his breath reeking of fermented ale and digested spiced vermin, the stench powerful enough to knock out almost any poor creature that could be found around the Iron Spine region of the world. But not a dwarf.

"You've known this. You've known this fer years haven't ye? Are ye scared boy?"

He paused, turned to gaze into the great light, struggling to find the words.

"I didn't know how to tell ye. I knew how to be a king and how to be a dwarf...but never how to be a father. Ye think I want me boy goin' into The Tunnel? After what happened with yer Ma? I hated every second of buildin' that Gods forsaken passage and I curse them every Sun-Day in this mountain. Make no mistake Modan me son, there's no other light I see in this dark place. Our people are suffocating in it...and the Great Chimney is darker today than it was last moon. We were not made to die me boy. To The Ashes with the gods and their constructs, their creations will live beyond them!"

Quiet once again, he reached into the flames of the Great Chimney, his other hand still on the side of my neck. Skin glowing violet across his meaty forearm, flames licking at the deepsilver and deepsilver biting back, his expression never changed as suddenly his entire arm was consumed, a faint purple still showing through the orange and yellow. Deepsilver protected him from anything it seemed, but the Chimney required much and he started to strain, the thick veins along his neck popping as if on command, sending all the incredible fortitude of a legendary dwarf king to the limb still inside the inferno. And just as he strained, his muscles suddenly relaxed and out his singed arm came, the aroma of burnt oily arm hair and raging coals pungent through my thick matted nosehair. He opened his hand, and what was once a radiant violet hidden by fire now lay dormant in his palm, in it lying a stone. Within the stone light still flickered, the violet now contained.

"With this ye will save us. I believe this...more than I've ever believed any Gods. We can make it work now, I promise ye, ain't nothin' happenin' to me only son. The alchemists worked on this since ye came out o' yer Ma and ye can bet dwarven science against any o' the fooey stoneheads outside this here mountain, I promise ye that. "

I was shocked, startled. What was I supposed to say? What did he want me to say? I shrugged off his hand and slowly made my way toward the Great Chimney myself, staring into what kept the mountain smoking.

"Ye haven't said a single word. Not even a sneeze comin' outt'a ye. This what all that trainin' does is it, turn ye against yer father and now yer king? Say somethin' boy!"

"What do ye want from me Pa? That I'm 'appy to be yer son and be put into the Chimney? That the years ye sent me away ta the mines fer supposedly me own good were just nothin'? And then that I'll be fine runnin' around with surface-deepsilver, just like you?! I know yer dyin' pa because of what that damn dragon did to ye, but yer killin' yer son too. And ye say nobody goin' through The Tunnel who ain't deepsilver. I gotta do it."

I couldn't hold his stare any longer and I needed something to distract me. What was I supposed to say? The ambient glow of the fire made the obsidian key around my neck sparkle, scattering brief miniature rays of light across the massive cavern that housed the Great Chimney. The respite in the distraction gave me room to gather my thoughts.

"Okay Pa I'll go in the Chimney, but ye over a line when ye think yer tellin' me how ta do it. I'm done with this and done with bein' told what to do. I'm riskin' me life tomorrow and every day after and nobody knows anything after that. Sounds like iss' me and me alone after tonight. Ye goin' to take the last night I have away from me standin' next to this infernal thing? Ye not had a sip o' ale and yer drunk."

Father nodded, coming to terms with the honesty and bluntness of his sons words, then turned his back toward me. Had I gone and finally done it? His voice was restrained, accepting even; either way what came next was out of character for a weathered dwarf king responsible for a kingdom on the brink of extinction. He was calm.

"Ye go son, go and feast with the others in the halls. I know it ain't much but ye got tonight so take it and forge it, craft yer memories that'll keep ye warm after ye breach The Tunnel and take to The Valley. Sorry fer all of it me boy. Ashes to it all."

With those last words I took my leave, now headed stoutly to the halls, laughter and rhythmic drumming booming down the endless narrow stone passages, signifying a feast in true dwarven fashion was being held tonight. Fires flickered from all sides, ensconced along the walls and hanging from the gray stone ceiling above. Always above. I understood the reason for the feast and slowed my walking to a crawl, fidgeting with the obsidian key as the haunting sounds of the impending crowds grew closer.

"GREETINGS MODAN DEEPSILVER THIS IS YOUR LAST NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAIN ARE YOU AWARE OF THIS? THERE IS A CELEBRATION IN THE HALLS AND YOUR PRESENCE HAS BEEN REQUESTED IN THE GREAT HALL, DO YOU NEED NAVIGATIONAL ASSISTANCE?"

The booming voice came from a side passage I now stood in front of, it's mechanical voice full of gravel and singular in purpose. The source of the intrusion, a constructor, rolled closer, halting just 2 anvils away, pebbles and smoke faintly spewing as it created noise. Annoyingly so. These constructs were imperative to the infrastructure of the mountain, contributing to it's design and creation and now for helping dwarfkin navigate the stone tunnels, with constructs spread throughout each district. Ruby, Mithril, and Steel, each district containing constructs attuned to those tunnels, mechanical creations the color of bruised stone patrolling the hallways, ever ready. Deepsilver stone-chunk tuned by centuries of magicka and progression, dwarven alchemy at it's finest. Though crafts of mastery and a tribute to what alchemy can achieve, a construct's design is narrow-minded and therefore almost always obtrusive, and very rarely actually helpful. This construct was particularly unhelpful.

"Constructor deactivate, return ta primary function. And lower yer voice it's not hard to hear ye through the damn tunnels ye walkin' shieldstrap!"

Rumbling and grinding back through the hallway it came from, the constructor seemed to make a little less noise than before.

The great oak doors to the entrance of the halls were already open, adorned with wreaths of iron and rusty blades, splintered shields and battered pieces of armor, all shattered and reforged into the door, every dwarf adding strength to it's base, as one. It was a celebration and that meant new tributes to the door, trinkets and weapons and anything precious to a dwarf would be brought to the forges within the halls and melted down as offering to the kingdom, in spirit and in material. Standing in front of the doors was a great hound, 3 dwarves tall, scales of stone covering it's massive spine, panting heavily in the middle of the doorway. It's eyes darted side to side as if looking for something, milky white and full of intensity. Without hesitation or warning and with unbelievable speed, it's gaze met mine and predictably bound recklessly down the tunnel toward me.

"EMIRA!!!"

The huge creature stopped in it's tracks, tipping from the momentum, it's slimy jagged tongue whipping about in excitement, sending spittle along the tunnel walls leaving sizzling pools of hot magma wherever it met stone. The white in it's eyes quickly shifted to emerald, and the massive beast proceeded to roll onto it's back, freshly ground rubble everywhere it's spiny coat pierced into the ground.

"Emira ye sweet girl how ye been??? Oh bah yer lookin' giant ye are ye just keep watch now I'll bring you a helmet or somethin' later to snack on!"

I reached out and ran my hand across the rough-hewn stone on the hounds back as I walked past, taking note to avoid the flecks of magma excreting from the glands within its mouth, characteristic of the stone-hounds found within the mountain we call home. Emira had been with the dwarves for centuries now, trained and enchanted to detect the deepsilver within our blood, surface or core. Nobody got through the halls who wasn't blood. Then just like that, Emira the stone-hound returned to attention, reinvigorated in her purpose, milky white eyes scanning the tunnel once again.

The first thing you notice when you enter the halls is always the Gemstone Sky, and every time the teasing smell of air from outside the mountain creeps down and into my senses, tickling memories from our heritage of which I have no recollection. Memories Ma used to speak of, of deepsilver dwarves riding dragons and forging Great Chimneys across the land. the gods and dwarves coalescing into a kingdom that reigned peacefully for millennia. Memories that aren't my own.

The halls echoed and pounded with noise, dozens of finely crafted stone tables lining its massive center cavern, heaps of freshly roasted tunnel vermin from each district lay strewn about, ligaments and steaming meat ripped from the carcasses being happily devoured by the handful. It was apparent that the tables were noticeably bare of inhabitants because each dwarf eating remained relatively composed as they ate, not having to worry about other dwarves reaching over their shoulder and into their pile, or leaping onto the table to take the whole carcass altogether. The feast had just begun then, and most of the dwarves were still congregating in front of The Hearth, fellowshipping with each other and preparing for their raucous night ahead. It was a sea of wild unkempt hair and ale-soaked trousers, the Gemstone Sky's lights twinkling from above, barely visible through the top of the mountain. It was home.

Peppered throughout the crowds were gnomes, a hilt shorter than your average dwarf and lacking any notable hair growth. The grinding sound of bruised-stone bodies whirling perfectly between the caverns patrons blended into the atmosphere, tediously designed constructs of all kinds carrying tankards between dwarves and generally just keeping the place running, mostly trying to avoid drunken inhabitants. Gnomes typically didn't come to the feasts held in the halls and stuck to their own tunnels, happily living in distant harmony with their mountain cousins; though related, these two races of the Iron Spine are rarely known to cohabitate due to temperamental and societal differences. Refreshingly enough, contrary to what most believe, gnomes are actually quite hygienic. Some races have been known to even confuse dwarves with gnomes due to their striking similarities, but any dwarf would consider it a proper insult. Any gnome would say the same. Some however got along quite well with most dwarves, and I had just spotted such a creature, familiar and warm in spirit.

He wasn't difficult to spot. Adorned atop his pointy head rested a bright red cap woven from leather, and behind him draped an oversized cape the shade of emerald. Why did he insist on these ridiculous garments? Eventually he noticed me eyeing him, grinned a gap-toothed grin revealing dwarf-piss yellow teeth and winked with the only eye that wasn't covered by a rugged eyepatch.

"Yuh just gun stand there den?! Ey yer a right watery ale I'll come ta yu!"

The high pitch coming from the gnome cut through the deep bellowing of the dwarves surrounding the cavern we were in, and I waited while he made his way toward me, constantly having to yank his cape out from under stomping boots and rolling constructors stones. Eventually he was within arms reach, and as he spit into his fuzzy mitt, I coughed up as much crud as I could muster and slathered it in my hand, shaking his in unison.

"So what's dat old hunk of mithril have ta say? Is it what we thought? Iz this really happening?"

"It is. Tonight is my last night in tha mountain...and tomorrow tha Great Chimney awaits. All that's left is ta drown my sorrows in ale and song, ta bury them deep under tha stone. I'm afraid if there is any weakness in me, any at all me dear friend, that inferno'll finish me. Nothin' but The Tunnel now fer me even if I do live."

"Yu'se cry so much yu turnin' my blood into water yu'se dirthead! Yu'se leavin' and seeing dragons, yu'se savin' all of us, and me stuck here banging rocks! I don't want to be yu Modan, but yu'se have chance ta be best of us. Or yu will be if yu'se stop cryin'!"

The bluntness of his advice brought a deep chuckle from me, scraggly beard shaking and hastily dripping with ale as I drank in toast to my friend and his directness. Tronk had always been honest and to the point, something I could rely on him for, whether feasting in the halls or in the Wild Tunnels expanding the Deepsilver. We had met and worked together in the mines, two mountainlings out of torchlight for the first time, navigating and expanding the unforgiving vast underground beneath the mountain's districts. Expeditions in the Wild Tunnels were a dangerous task, but one any dwarf or gnome would be proud to carry out. In pursuit of precious gems and resources, but mostly necessary tunneling ordered by the king, oftentimes the mines housing the Wild Tunnels were composed of offenders to the kingdom and miscreants, carrying out the justified and critical dirty work of the mountain folk in exchange for leniency in sentence. Mountain folk are a tightly-forged bunch, always finding ways to progress socially and constructively, ever-expanding the inner workings of our mountain, ever-building. As dwarves do with scrap they also do with their people, attuning a purpose to all things, always crafting toward a better outcome.

Yes, Tronk had always been a good friend.

Silence began to fall over the waves of mountainkin, the focus of the room shifting to an imperially dressed dwarf, aged and solid in his stature, calling out to his subjects. A great golden Minotaur towered beside him, just beyond the banquet tables. And what a great idol it was; some dwarves had spread rumours that it had been placed there by the First Folk, that when they had discovered Deepsilver Mountain and integrated themselves into it's depths, the only thing preventing it's dragons from making dinner of it's new invaders were these golden creations, blessed with godly arcana and shaped by beings of immeasurable power, icons protecting dragonsoul from ever tainting the deepsilver within most mountainfolk. The workmanship transcended possibility, gifted with and from divinity, a beacon of raw power. This icon was said to have been placed millennia ago, or maybe it had just always been there. Either way the icon never moved, the awe of it's power consuming the very air it touched, the very people whose prayers it felt. Which was why it was incredibly alarming and upsetting when the shining golden minotaur craned it's neck downward, fixating on my father and his boot, an ant to his godly presence; and bent lower to the ground, opening it's disgusting maw of a mouth, ripping the entire upper half of the third deepsilver king's body clean from it's appendage with it's hellish bite.