(DWARF) THORVAK
The return feels like a triumphal march, even though we know it’s a silent victory, devoid of the glory of spilled blood. I almost regret the absence of the great war drums and horns, the ones that make our blood boil and send shivers down the spines of creatures in the tunnels. This time, no deaths, no injuries. We achieved what we wanted: the humans’ retreat. At least, it’s what I wanted. Now, I’ll have to frame this victory in a way that serves the entire kingdom—to make everyone believe it was done for the greater good, not just to satisfy my personal ambitions. The diplomacy of storytelling begins here, in the shadowy woods, and if I play it right, I can not only bring glory to our group but also inspire the younger generation to break free from these suffocating traditions.
Walking through the forest has a strangely comforting quality. It’s not easier than trudging through debris, but there’s a normalcy in the scent of damp moss and the crunch of dead branches under our boots. A normalcy that the ashes, charred rocks, and alien metal structures completely destroyed and transfigured.
As we move, Thorin reappears. She and her scouts always move with startling speed, so much so that they’ve already caught up to us. She stops in front of me, her face smeared with dirt but her expression sharp.
"Chief, the humans have left the forest. There seems to be another devastated zone further north."
I think, but no clear plan forms. It’s certain the humans will scavenge what they can there, but what should we do about it? I settle for a nod and a few words of acknowledgment. She salutes and leaves, her team already joining our column.
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Back at the camp, the atmosphere is much lighter. The dwarves laugh, jibe at one another, their faces reflecting a mix of relief and pride. The last sausages left on the grill didn’t finish cooking over the flames, but the embers did the job. The scent is mouthwatering, though tinged with a slight hint of burning.
But this tranquility is never complete. I spot one of my men berating another, his gruff voice echoing through the camp.
"Was it you who left the embers, you idiot?! Always cover them with dirt! The forest’s burned enough as it is!"
I can’t help but crack a small smile. These quarrels are part of our group. But he’s right. The forest still bears the scars of flames, and we can’t afford to worsen its state, especially this close to the ancient beast.
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I sit on my usual rock, one whose massive tree roots have cracked and splintered over the centuries. Around me, my men are already organizing themselves. Each knows what needs to be done without me delivering lengthy speeches. That reassures me. We have many tasks ahead.
The immediate priority is establishing contact with Hilda. Not all the stairways lead to the same exit within our underground kingdom, and she was stuck in another section due to recent cave-ins caused by the cataclysm. She’ll likely emerge further north, far from our current position, through one of the small hidden doors in the cliff that separate our kingdom and the forest. I assign a few of my men to go meet her. They grumble but comply. Hilda must be found quickly.
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There are ten of us descending. Elda, my wife, has stayed behind at the camp to oversee operations. That suits me, in a way. The thought of returning underground, burying myself like a cursed mole, already weighs on me. Before that, I take one last look at the dragon to ensure it hasn’t deteriorated, though I know I can’t do anything about its state. It remains unchanged, for better or worse.
Reaching the metal door concealed in the cliffside, I stop. It won’t open on its own. A rusted chain dangles beside it, attached to a bell. I tug at it once, a clear chime echoing down the corridor, but nothing happens.
I growl under my breath.
"He’s asleep, the fool."
I tug frantically on the chain, the sound repeating in rapid succession. Minutes pass—five, maybe six. Finally, a grating noise announces the door’s movement. A guard with heavy-lidded eyes appears, clearly not fully awake.
"About time," I grumble.
Behind him, the elevator platform is fortunately in place, ready to descend. We won’t have to wait for its return, which feels like a small miracle. With one last glance at the forest and the treetops disappearing into the dark sky, I steel myself. This descent will only be the first step in what promises to be a long political battle.
We step on it, and it shifts slightly under our weight before stabilizing. It could hold over a hundred dwarves, yet we are only ten. Ten to face the ire of the recalcitrant factions, though in reality, only two of us matter. Bran and I—the others have no real standing in dwarven politics. They’re merely warriors, which is still more respectable than most dwarven roles. But they won’t be the ones debating, shouting, and persuading. I’m counting on Bran; my cousin has a sharp tongue and hails from a prestigious lineage.
I already know who I’ll approach for support—primarily the younger guilds. Their hunger for power and ambition aligns much more with mine than with that of the elders. And with the cataclysm having disrupted all subterranean expeditions, these men need work. They’re not mere diggers; they’re explorers, innovators. Bran, of course, hasn’t stopped talking throughout the hour-long descent. If he’s already tiring me out, I have no doubt about the verve and energy he’ll unleash in front of the council.
Finally, we reach the loading chamber. The group splits up; my men are tasked with fetching supplies and contacting the right people. As for me, I must meet the king. It won’t be an official audience—more likely later this evening—but I’m certain he’ll agree to see me. After all, I’m also his younger cousin.