The rhythmic thunk-thunk of Grok’s pickaxe was the heartbeat of his world. Not the jagged, echoing strike against deep rock, but a softer, gentler sound, the sound of carefully breaking earth. He wasn’t after veins of mithril or glimmering gold today. Today, Grok was a farmer, a prospector of the soil itself.
The cavern room, a rough-hewn chamber he’d carved out weeks ago, was slowly transforming. Its bare rock walls, usually echoing with the clang of mining, were now softened by the rich, dark soil he'd been ferrying down from the surface. He’d made countless trips, his sturdy frame bent under the weight of the baskets, each step a testament to his patience. The journey up the narrow shaft to the sun, a rare and precious treat, was a stark contrast to the cool quiet of his subterranean world.
Today, the planting was complete. Grok, his rough hands still stained with the dark loam, stood back and surveyed his work. Tiny mounds of earth, each holding the promise of a bountiful harvest, stretched across the floor like miniature dune fields. A satisfied grunt rumbled in his chest. This was more rewarding than any vein of ore he had uncovered.
He squatted down, running a calloused finger over the cool earth. Weeks of waiting lay ahead, weeks of meticulous watering, and watching the first signs of life emerge from the quiet darkness. He imagined the velvety caps pushing through the soil, the earthy aroma filling the chamber. The thought itself brought a smile to his usually stern face.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The harvest, when it came, would be a cause for celebration. Plump helmets were more than just sustenance; they were a connection to his ancestors, the first dwarves who had learned to coax life from the earth under the mountains. And their flavor, particularly when brewed into a hearty, potent ale, was something to yearn for through the long wait. Grok allowed himself a fleeting image of the frothing mugs, the taste of home on his tongue. He had a small chest of dried malt ready. Perhaps, after the first harvest, a few barrels wouldn't go amiss.
But even as he considered the possibilities, the farmer in Grok knew the work was far from over. The underground cavern itself was more than just a space; it was an ecosystem he was slowly discovering. His mining was more than just a quest for riches. It was a search for the perfect microclimate, the hidden pockets of moisture and minerals that could nurture not just his mushrooms, but perhaps other things as well. He yearned to understand the hidden heart of the mountain, the web of life that existed beyond the reach of sunlight.
He adjusted his lamp, the flickering flame casting long shadows on the cavern walls. The rhythmic thunk-thunk of the pickaxe began again, not a sound of labor, but a song of exploration, a hymn to the earth beneath his feet. Grok, the farmer-miner, delved deeper into his subterranean world, drawn by the promise of new discoveries, new harvests, and the quiet satisfaction of working alongside the very heart of the mountain.