Year 173, Day 12th of Granite
The air tastes of ash and goblin rot. It permeates everything – our clothes, our beards, even the very stone of the mountain. This war… it’s not like the skirmishes of old. This Demon Lord, they call him ‘Gnashmaw’, has twisted the goblins into something vile. Their arrows burn with unnatural fire, and their shamans conjure horrors that make even our hardened hearts quail. We’ve lost good dwarves, too many good dwarves. Today, I saw young Fralin, barely out of his apprenticeship, fall to a burst of that cursed green flame. His beard… gone, charred into nothing. It made me sick.
We have our own magic too, the stone-born power of our ancestors. But it feels slow, ponderous against Gnashmaw's chaos. We need something more. I’ve called for the old shamans, who are mostly scoffed at. Even myself, have done so. Their eyes gleam, hearing my plan. They assure me, of their power. We go deep, beneath the roots of the mountain, where the old legends say creatures of immense power stir. It’s a gamble, but what else do we have?
Year 173, Day 28th of Felsite
By Grimnir’s beard…it worked. We found them. Not "beasts" in the common sense. More like walking mountains of muscle and chitin. The first one is larger than a wagon, a "Grindstone Beetle", its shell a mosaic of jagged plates, each the size of a shield, all edged with razor sharp edges. It rears up on thick, stumpy legs, mandibles snapping like steel traps. The second is a "Stone-Back Grotesque", its hide a living mass of petrified rock, with a head that resembles a crumbling mountain peak, horns like twisted tree trunks and stone sharp teeth. The third, something we’ve taken to calling a “Shardmaw”, has a hide adorned with hundreds of crystalline shards, each one catching the firelight like a tiny star, the head like the maw of a bottomless cave of sharp edged rocks. The fourth, a truly terrifying being, we call the "Molten Crawler", as it is a behemoth of rock and magma, it leaves trails of molten rock, its feet like cooled magma. and the fifth a "Root-Crawler", a massive worm-like creature, that leaves trails of earth and roots in its wake, its hide as hard as barked and gnarled earth. They were... difficult to subdue. Many dwarves felt the bite of their fury, but with chains of blessed iron and the power of our runes, we forced them into submission.
We are training them now, directing their rage. These are not war mounts or pets, but living siege engines, forces of nature we are harnessing. The goblins will drown in the blood of their masters when we unleash these monsters.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Year 173, Day 1st of Obsidian
The battlefield today was… a slaughter. The goblins met our line, their twisted magic clashing with our runes. Then we unleashed the beasts. The Grindstone Beetle plowed through their ranks like a boulder, crushing bone and splattering gore. The Stone-Back Grotesque, an immovable wall, repelled any attempt to break through. The Shardmaw raked through groups of goblins with its razor-sharp hide. Root-Crawler plowed through the middle of their formation, creating a huge ravine. The Molten Crawler was set ablaze and sent straight to their mages and shamans. They panicked. Gnashmaw himself arrived amid a cloud of black smoke and foul stench. I found myself face to face with him, his eyes like burning coals, his laughter a chorus of madness. My blood was boiling. We battled. But my beasts distracted him. and I finally slammed my Skullcrusher, my hammer made of adamantine, sapphires and a goblin skull, into his skull. It didn't take much, he was weak from my beasts brutal onslaught. The demon lord fell. His death was anticlimactic.
The goblins broke and fled. The war… it’s over. We won.
Year 176, Day 20th of Moonstone
The mountainhome has sent emissaries, singing our praises. We are granted vast lands, new veins of ore to mine, and I, Borin Sonebeard, am hailed as a hero of the mountain. They feast and cheer, raising tankards in my name. I see the joy in their eyes, the relief, the pride… but I feel only…emptiness. I remember the faces of the dead. Young Fralin. Old Balin. My own brother Gorin, torn apart by goblin hounds. The ghosts of the battlefield still cling to me like shadows. No glory, only a strange hollowness.
Year 179, Day 4th of Marble
New faces. They come from afar these days, humans, and elves, seeking refuge from the chaos. They see what we accomplished, the strength of this fortress and my name. They submit to me, the leader who brought down the demon. They fear me, yes, but they also see the stability I provide. This fortress grows, sprawling beneath the mountain, a grand city carved from the living rock. We have halls of polished obsidian, vast mines that delve deeper each year, and workshops that hum with the rhythm of industry. It is all so immense.
Year 180, Day 1st of Timber
My days are consumed by the tasks of leadership. I attend to the needs of my people, settle disputes, and direct the expansion of our fortress. The dwarves who live here now, many of them are young, only knowing life after the war. They have not seen the horrors I have. They are happy, they do not share the same burden that plagues me. I see their children running in the halls, their laughter echoing in the stone. I watch them and I think... it has to be better. It has to have all meant something.
Skullcrusher lies on my table. It feels heavy in my hands. It is no longer a tool of war, but a reminder, a burden, a symbol of what we’ve been through, where we have been, and that life goes on. even if things are different for me. Even if I am changed.