He had not seen light for nearly one hundred years, not real light, not the kind able to tan skin. His light was that of fire and sometimes molten rock, but the Innerlands had no need for sun. Neither did Hegril. Not really. He and his kin were Dwarves who bore deep underground with rarely a need to ever come up.

However, as water seeped its way through the earth’s pores down to the Dwarves, so too did rumors. And one of the rumors was that Elves has started to appear back on the Flatlands. Hegril did not believe it. Not at first. But one rumor, in particular, disturbed him. An elf had been spotted in the Highlands, near the opening to their grand mine and the Godscliff.

He grumbled as he swung a pick over his shoulder. The Highlands were where, farther back than any could remember, the Dwarves had first settled, before diving down into the Earth; it made sense to them, for the higher you start, the further down you have to tunnel, and tunneling is what they did best.

An elf in the Highlands was an insult to his kind. It left them with a broken treaty, and a broken treaty is something dwarves could not have. They preferred to be left in peace, to mine their mines.

The other rumor he heard was that of a human’s new ability to do magic. This rumor made its way down through their Seers, something of which he was skeptical. Yet, the mystics were highly regarded. If they said magic was going on, magic was going on, in the minds of most Dwarves, and so here he was, leaving is comfy mine, to deal with whoever needed dealing with. Or at least, try to find a way to negotiate with the elves. War was to be avoided at all costs. So said the Dwarven King.

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“Elves,” he said, walking through Highland brush. His eyes were still in the process of adjusting to light. His skin was burning under the sun, it felt like. “Never thought in my lifetime I’d be sent to negotiate with elves.”

He wanted to go back to his mine. There was gold in his mine, somewhere. He was sure of it.

“Over cliff,” a voice said. Hegril hunkered down behind a bush, which was not very hard to do, as he was not very large. He leaned around and looked towards a group of men. They were wearing strange garments made of animal skin and had bones for helms. Had humans really fallen this far in one thousand years?

Maybe they won’t be so hard to deal with after all, he thought. Certainly none of these sort could do magic.

He almost got up to shout at the men in greeting, when he saw what they were carrying. A limp body. From head to crotch it was covered in brown--dried human blood, Hegril knew. The humans, carrying the dead man, were going towards the edge of a cliff, and as crazy as it sounded to Hegril, he heard one of the strange men say, “Godscliff.”

Hegril was shocked. They were going to throw that dead body off the Godscliff? That wasn’t the way the cliff was intended for use. Thousands of years ago, the elves and dwarves and men used it to make sacrifices to the Gods. Valuables were thrown over the edge. Not people. And especially not dead people. He whispered to himself, “The Gods will not be best pleased.”

But there was nothing he could do--he wasn’t about to jump out and take on a whole pack of wild humans. And anyway, it wasn’t like he was angering the Gods. Not dwarf would be so insane as that.

He watched them throw the man over the cliff. Then the laughed amongst themselves, brushed off their hands, walked away with a large sack passed from person to person, the glint of gold--Hegril knew that glint well--lighting off the afternoon sun.

He would have to capture a human. Not one of these, but someone. He would have to capture a human and make that human talk. That way he could get the lay of the land and make a move on the East Shore--for that, he knew, is where the elves were now.