Grok’s beard, a tangled tapestry of copper and grey, brushed against the rough-hewn stone as he leaned against the tunnel wall. Dust motes, illuminated by the weak glow of his mining lamp, danced in the air like tiny, restless spirits. Six months. Six months of sweat, aching muscles, and the rhythmic clang of his pickaxe against stubborn rock. Six months of solitude that had become both a burden and a strange comfort.
He gazed out at his claim, his “hold” as he’d come to think of it. It wasn't a majestic structure carved from the heart of a mountain, like the grand holds he remembered from his youth in Deep Rock. It was, instead, a sprawling network of tunnels and caverns, a testament to his relentless dedication. He’d chased the whispers of underground rivers, followed the faintest hints of mineral veins, carving out a space in the earth that was uniquely his.
He’d not only dug, though. Grok had always been a restless soul, with a mind as sharp as his pick. His surface dwelling was a testament to that. He had intricate fish traps, crafted from willow and stone, bobbing in the stream near his entrance, providing a steady source of protein; the fish would only last a day, or two, if he did not smoke them, as they tasted funny after that. His small dwelling was filled with sturdy furniture, built with his own hands and meticulously smoothed. The shelves were crammed with salvaged bits, tools, and curiosities he had found in the earth or acquired through infrequent trades with the occasional travelling merchant. There was the workshop in its own cavern that held many of his projects - a testament to his ability to pick up a trade. He had even mastered foraging, learning to discern edible roots and berries from those that would make him ill.
His eyes landed on the small, intricately crafted clockwork devices that sat on a nearby work bench. The seismic detector, a delicate contraption of gears and springs, its needle quivering slightly, always on the lookout for signs of the elusive cavern he was searching for. And perched beside it, the scout bird, a marvel of dwarven engineering, its wings folded neatly, ready to take flight again to survey the above land. He had poured countless hours into these machines, constantly refining and improving them.
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Yet, a weariness had settled in his bones, a weariness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. He was tired of the constant digging, the endless search for something that might not even exist. He’d come to this claim with a fire in his belly, a desire to prove himself, to find something of value. Now, that fire felt like embers, glowing faintly but not with the intensity they once had.
He decided he would give it one more year. One more year to chase the whispers of fortune, one more year to seek for the underground cavern he was sure, was down here somewhere. If he found nothing, he’d return. Not as a failure, he reassured himself, but as a dwarf who had explored, who had learned, who had faced the solitude and the earth with equal measure of respect. He didn’t know how the others in Deep Rock would view him. Would they see success in his solitary endeavor, or would he be seen as a lone dwarf, wasting his time in a nameless claim? He knew they would be well and fine. He was sure by now, most had their own assignments or jobs at the stonehold - a luxurious place to be. In truth, he craved some acknowledgement for his work, even a fleeting recognition. He had put a lot of effort into this.
But there was no one here but him and the earth. So he would allow time to pass slowly, as slow as the rocks around him. He would allow nature to be his only companion. He would slow down. He would be okay. Grok sighed, the sound echoing faintly in the cavern. He turned away from his work. He had plenty of time - another year. A year to relax a little. A year to let the earth tell its stories, a year to listen.