THORVAK, DWARVES
In the depths of the dwarven kingdom, where hammers ring against anvils and forges glow in the shadow of mountains, the Grand Hall remains a sanctuary. Everywhere else, dwarves toil to clear collapsed tunnels, evacuate ruined dwellings, and retrieve the fragmented bodies of the fallen. Thorvak Bloodrune, clad in his sturdy black armor adorned with engraved runes, strides purposefully through the vast halls. Around him, dwarves labor urgently: sealing cracks, reinforcing weakened passages, and restoring supply lines, some earth-oil pipes have been broken. He spares little attention to his comrades and the scaffolding around him, his mind focused on greater concerns. Under the immense gilded vault of the Grand Hall, the king’s chamber, miraculously untouched, stirs with unease.
Thorvak, his expression grim and his eyes glinting with restrained anger, finally reaches the stone throne where King Durmar Stonebreaker sits. Surrounded by advisors and scribes, the king studies a massive map etched into a granite table. The map depicts the subterranean kingdom and the lands above, marked with winding lines representing fissures and hazards. The advisors are already planning fortifications. What good is burrowing deeper if creatures worse than the dragon dwell in the immense caverns below?
“Your Majesty,” Thorvak booms, his voice echoing through the hall as the words nearly leap from his lips, “it is time to fulfill your responsibilities.”
Durmar raises a single eyebrow, slowly. The king, a commanding dwarf with a silver beard braided with gems and gold, has a gaze that betrays his centuries of rule. For nearly two hundred years, he has reigned.
“Thorvak, you dare enter unbidden during a time of crisis?”
The king’s tone is furious, but Thorvak is undeterred. He knows the old man’s anger is mostly for show. After all, Durmar would not harm his favorite younger cousin, the same cousin whom he had accompanied during his rune-carving ritual.
“I come precisely because it is a crisis, King Durmar!” Thorvak strides forward, ignoring the indignant murmurs of the advisors. “The people are sealing cracks and shoring up tunnels, but it will not be enough. What has happened above our dwarven lands—this cataclysm—it could spell our doom!”
Durmar’s hands clench the arms of his throne, and a strange tension ripples through the stone as though it trembled under his grip. Yet he remains silent, allowing Thorvak to continue.
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“For centuries, we’ve remained locked in these mountains, hiding like rats in holes. No one dares brave the surface anymore. We’ve allowed the guardian—that dragon—to reign over the Fissure and the forest without ever questioning its purpose. And today, that guardian is weakened. Wounded. The rumors speak of a rain of fire, of a celestial battle, and we… we know nothing!”
The advisors are outraged. How dare Thorvak, this brash warrior and his clique of so-called “adventurers,” speak such blasphemy before the king? A wounded guardian? What does he know? If this ball of muscle weren’t a distant relative of the king ...
Thorvak gestures sharply toward the map, almost shoving the advisors aside.
“It is your duty, King, to protect your people. And that cannot be done by ignoring what lies beyond our tunnels. If the guardian falls, if something or someone has struck it down, then what? Do we wait for them to come for us next? You know as well as I do: if this creature is weakened, there is a reason. And that reason could descend upon us.”
Durmar’s gaze remains fixed on Thorvak, heavy with contemplation. Finally, he speaks, his tone calm but firm.
“What you say is not without merit, Thorvak. But what do you propose? Should we break centuries of tradition and return to the surface? Send our warriors against forces we do not understand? Abandon our defenses to face the unknown? Our people are already grieving, and you would risk more lives?”
Thorvak grits his teeth. He expected this response.
“I propose that we stop being cowards. That we act as dwarves, as the proud and indomitable people we once were. Send a delegation. An elite group. Not an army, but enough to discover what is happening above. If the guardian falls, we must know why. Send me, King.”
The advisors murmur among themselves. Few approve of what Thorvak has said. His words have not convinced them. Are these old dwarves truly weak and fearful? King Durmar fixes the warrior with a hard stare.
“You are willing to risk the lives of our warriors for what you believe to be a potential threat?”
“I am willing to risk my own,” Thorvak replies without hesitation. “If you’re too afraid to act, I will find those who will accompany me. But sitting here, doing nothing, condemns our people to a slow death.”
Durmar closes his eyes briefly, then rises, commanding silence in the hall.
“Thorvak Bloodrune, your loyalty to your people is undeniable. You will lead a delegation to the surface. But let it be clear: if you fail, the responsibility will be yours. And if you bring danger to our doors, it will be on your name.”
Thorvak inclines his head, a determined smile on his lips. He knew the king would agree, albeit reluctantly. Durmar had no real choice. Thorvak would have gone regardless; he could no longer endure the confinement of the mountains. Without wasting time trying to sway the hesitant advisors, he strides out of the Grand Hall, already planning his team.
They must discover what happened. The rumors of fire and celestial war must be clarified. If the dwarves remain in the shadows, they risk being crushed by a threat they cannot see coming.
Thorvak tightens his grip on his runic hammer. Whatever awaits above, he is ready to face it.