There’s a saying all over the world: Even a Dwarf couldn’t befriend that.
It’s an old saying, so old in fact that nobody, other than the dwarves that is (and not even all of them), remembers, or knows, why it exists.
Or rather, everybody thinks they know: because dwarves are the friendliest species on the planet. Consummate neutrals in any and all wars, great adventurers, even better drinking buddies, and after that the only things they’re better at are mining and smithing. Surprisingly, not brewing. If you drink dwarven-made beer or, in general, alcohol, you usually only do it to get wasted in the company of friends (or to drown your sorrows). You certainly don’t do it to accompany a fine dinner of expensive meats and fruits in the company of your one and only (again, usually).
And while all of these things stand true, they’re not the actual reason that saying was born.
For that, one would have to look back a few thousand years.
How many thousands?
Enough to go back to the Era of Hunts. During the War of the Arachne.
Now, thousands of years later, a man walks into a bar. He wears all black, but not in an ‘edgy’ way, like a [Rogue] usually would, more like a [Noble], or, actually, a normal person who likes the color. Still, the first thing springing to mind when seeing him would be the word ‘Noble’. Not long after, though, the idea would usually be completely shattered by the drinks he ordered and the boisterous laughter, so unlike that of most noblemen.
The man does just that right now, walking to the counter of the inn he will perform in tonight with an easy smile and casual step, sitting down in front of the barman glaring at him suspiciously, for his clothes look too fine for an establishment like his own, and making the simplest request in the world: “[Barman], what’s your most gut-destroying drink?”
Silence falls onto the room with the same devastation of a rock thrown by a [Mountaineer] onto a military convoy trespassing onto his property without having had the mindfulness of saying that they weren’t coming for him and the things he owns.
Then someone in the crowd chuckles and, soon enough, the room is filled with chuckling and light conversation again.
The man at the counter raises an eyebrow before reaching down with his left hand and taking out a bottle containing a dark liquid that reflects the light shining on it perfectly.
“This is the worst I have. It’s some kind of dwarven sailor shit that was bootlegged in a ship. I only ever served three of these and the people who drank them nearly went into a coma. Fancy giving it a go?”
The man looks at the bottle with narrowed eyes for a moment, then nods, whispering: “Give me one glass of it. I probably won’t drink it, I get these more for the atmosphere than anything else, but who knows.”
The man frowns: “You get it, you pay for it.”
“Never said I wouldn’t. So, how much?”
The [Barman] visibly relaxes at that and nods, taking out a glass he probably hadn’t spat in to clean it and serving him a generous dose. The liquid is the color of amber, but that’s more or less the only thing good about it. The moment it’s out of the bottle both men and, probably, some of the patrons around them, are hit by a wave of smell that nearly knocks them unconscious.
After a moment where they all have to reassert their hold upon reality, the man wearing black blinks and says: “I’ve smelled elven alcohol, the actual stuff, that was less powerful than this.”
The [Barman] blinks back, before shaking his head: “That glass is free if you take the whole bottle with you when you leave.”
“Deal.”
The bottle is stoppered back up and slid to the strange customer, who then turns around, glass and bottle in hand, and begins walking to the center of the room.
There he looks at a table with food, drinks and people arguing among themselves, he nods, makes a little hop, and ends up right in its center.
The four men stop talking, looking up in absolute shock, and before they can even begin to attempt to retaliate for… actually, nothing had been spilled. Neither food nor drink had fallen off and onto the men or the floor, somehow.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Well, mostly gentlemen, but don’t think I haven’t seen you, o’ fine ladies back there. [Settle Down]!”
The Skill activates and, immediately, a hush falls on the room, the people settling down naturally in their seats and turning their eyes towards him. A basic Skill for a [Storyteller], but a very powerful one indeed. A risky Skill, for one became the center of the show only if they were certain that they could keep up with the expectations. He is one of these few brave ones.
“Hello, good evening, or good night, whichever you prefer. My name is Gratianus Ravenspoken, and today I shall tell you a story.”
Immediately some people groan and turn away, but someone, the [Barman], speaks up: “Hoy, if you’re just going to tell us some of those trite old stories the College and the churches approve of I suggest you go somewhere else. We’ve heard them all at least a thousand times, in all their variations.”
Ah, perfect! Someone has said the Thing, as he likes to call it. His smile becomes only bigger as he activates a Skill, [Innocent Smile] and, slowly, says: “Oh, but I’m not one of them. I wouldn’t bother coming to such an unrespectable establishment with that… boring stuff. I happen to be, by chance and desire, an [Unlicensed Storyteller].”
The crowd stares at him, uncertainty on some faces, suspicion on others.
That is, until one of the women in the back shouts: “He’s telling the truth.”
Gratianus, which isn’t his name, the [Unlicensed Storyteller], which isn’t his Class, bows towards the source of the voice, taking off an imaginary hat.
“Ah, my lady, you truly warm my heart, thank you. And, if that wasn’t proof enough for all of you, I shall allow you to subject me to the treatment normally reserved for failed storytellers in case I prove unworthy of such trust. What say you?”
Silence has fallen on the room again, everyone looking at a small table holding five women of the unsavory sort who are staring hungrily at him. Now, they turn back towards him as some people nod and others murmur their approval.
“Well then, what say you all finest folk of them all, if I were to tell you of the reason behind the saying ‘Even a Dwarf couldn’t befriend that’?”
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[Mid-Depth Mine Commander] Duran was a stocky fellow. Well, truth be told, all dwarves were stocky, but he was just a tad stockier than the average dwarf. Nobody ever said anything about it, though, because he was extremely good at his job, and because, really, when you worked for hours and hours on end in the mines leading younger dwarves than you, even newbies, and teaching them how to best do their job, and then in the evening you came back and felt hungrier than most, well, it was only natural. Even expected.
In those days the dwarves, like today, were some of the greatest [Miners] in the world. Some said they were even better [Miners] than they were [Smiths], but the difference was so minute that one would be hard pressed to be certain about it.
But which days are we talking about? Why, naturally, the years of the Era of Hunts, better known as the War of the Arachne. The time when the whole world was forced to fight against a species made by Death itself as punishment for a great transgression committed by the gods -
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“Wait, by the gods?” says someone in the crowd, “Wasn’t that for some kind of big sin we committed?”
Gratianus turns and looks straight into the man’s eyes, his Skill [Detect Disruptor] causing him to stand out of the crowd with a slightly luminescent aura. He points at him, his index finger slightly crooked, pale lines appearing on his otherwise well tanned skin, as if someone had drawn on him. Or caused scars. Punishments, these were, for breaking the laws of the churches on Storytelling.
“Sir, I do not take kindly to interruptions. So I ask kindly to both you and anyone else who will have questions about this story to keep them to themselves until the end. I shall answer only this once: yes, I didn’t misspeak. It was the gods who committed a grave sin. Which one? Well, that is another story.
“Now, kindly, do not interrupt me anymore.”
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Death created the arachne, and we all know the story from there: machines of destruction who love to cause pain and kill, unstoppable, intelligent beyond anything anyone expected out of a race born from nothing, with magic beyond the ability of most [Archmages] of the time and the ability to touch and shape souls in ways not even the greatest [Soul Mages] could.
In short, a true nightmare made flesh.
Their only purpose? To destroy all life on this planet. To be the last ones standing.
A group of real pieces of shit, am I right? For those times, I’d say yes.
And yet, there are documented cases of them showing kindness to other species. The most known is that of the Witch of Spiders, a single human girl who joined their side and became one of their greatest assets in the years that followed. Well, I say documented but, again, her name was completely erased from most books. It is safe to say though that it was because of her that the Witch Hunts started after the end of the Era of Hunts.
And yet there is one other case about the arachne showing not only kindness, but outright friendship, to another species of this world. The species known for their friendliness and ability to befriend pretty much anything with the ability to breathe, or with a heart that beats. The dwarves.
On the day the arachne and the dwarves met for the first time the War had been going for around five decades. And the dwarves… they’d never really heard much about it. They didn’t like to leave Mountainhome and news of the outside world didn’t reach them much, so they only got a request now and then for a shipment of weapons and armor, more often these days than in the last few centuries, they did their job, were paid and went on with their lives.
That day, though, [Mine Commander] Duran and his personal group of [Miners], all over Level 40, made an encounter that would change their lives and those of the dwarves of Mountainhome forever.
It started, like many things do for the dwarves, with a pick being planted in a rock.
There was enough strength behind the blow to skewer through five men wearing dwarven-crafted steel armor and, probably, go right through a mithril one. And no, it wasn’t all thanks to a Skill. That was how strong he was normally. Yes, he had some enhancement Skills such as [Strength of the Giant] and [Muscle Control], but that was, like, nothing. In his time he’d met Grandfathers with more strength in their pinky fingers than he had in his entire body.
Still, he planted his pick in the rock, and the metal sheared through it like a warm knife with butter, his movements fluid like those of a dancer, if a dancer had been one and a half meters tall with enough muscles to be a [Body Builder] (under the healthy layers of fat).
There was a tremor in the earth around them and, immediately, a dwarf activated the Skill [Stabilize Ground] while another took out a bag of holding a few thick planks of wood and, with inhumane speed, began building supports for the tunnel, his hands placing the planks in place (they stayed there even as he let go of them) while he planted thick steel nails in with the same ease as breathing.
“Good thinking Ralph,” said Duran as he raised his pick up and in one smooth motion brought it back down, again shearing through rock and stone without even breaking a sweat. These days he considered the simple movements quite relaxing: they allowed him to think about his life, about what he would be doing when he decided to retire. Maybe he’d join one of the Archive crews? The gods knew just how many people constantly worked on them and just how many more were required. For now he was just providing the materials for the construction of the dwarves’ greatest Project in the last few millennia, but maybe one day he’d go down to the deepest depths of the Mines and work on it in person. Who could tell?
He’d need more Levels for that though.
Down his pick came again and he heard the sound of well-oiled wheels coming down their tunnel as their personal [Speedy Minecart Driver] arrived, immediately beginning to shovel excess stone into his minecart while he chattered away with his colleagues about this and that. The carrying capacity of the steel minecart was around four cubic meters but, thanks to his [Bottomless Minecart] Skill, the dwarf could just keep on shoveling and not worry about it.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Duran smiled at that but didn’t stop picking away at the stone ahead of him, the other [Miners] at his sides doing the same, working in perfect synchronicity, as if following an unspoken and unheard rhythm to the letter. They’d stopped singing a few minutes prior actually: dwarves were great singers, sure, but even they had to let their voices rest unless they wanted to come back up from the Mines sounding like some kind of undead monstrosity. Their ventilation systems were good, sure, but there were still limits and precautions to be taken.
And speaking of precautions: Duran’s Skill [Internal Clock] dinged in the back of his mind and he signaled everybody to stop by raising a hand, pickaxe slung over his shoulder.
“I’m activating my Skill [Detect Gas Sack]. [Internal Clock] timer of ten minutes. Go.”
As he said these words he felt the timer being put in his [Internal Clock] and, at the same time, his other Skill activate. His perception expanded outside the tunnel he found himself in and reached outwards, looking for any sort of gas trapped in a crevice in the earth. A few moments later he felt a few something ping on this internal sense and he pointed to his right and forward as the sounds turned into color and he got a general sense of what they were working with.
“Fifteen meters that way there’s a small sack of Sleeper’s Death. It’s ten meters long upwards from out level, twelve downwards. Send the information to the tunnels that risk encountering it…”
As he talked their [Driver] began activating [Memo] Skills and sending out the information to Command at the starting point, followed soon after by two other members of Duran’s team repeating it for good measure.
The same was done for each and every other sac of gas that he’d been able to detect.
“Finally, there appears to be a sack of air in front of us at a distance of twenty meters, at the edge of my Skill. I do not believe there are any tunnels that should be crossing our path, so I suspect the presence of another species’ tunnels. We are going to investigate.”
The information was sent up to Command, which swiftly replied with a ‘Go Ahead and Thank You’.
And they went back to mining.
It was around ten minutes before they rea -
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Someone opens the door to the bar and shouts: “Hey guys, why are there so many crows around this place? Did you murder someone agai -”
The [Storyteller] turns around towards the interruptor and, pointing a finger, shouts: “[Shut the Fuck Up]!”
Immediately the man’s mouth seals itself shut and doesn’t open anymore, to his surprise and, soon after, panic.
“[Sit Down] and enjoy the story. Now, what was I saying? Ah, right!”
The crowd stares at the [Storyteller] with eyes big as saucers while some people chuckle and comment among themselves. But that’s alright. Those are crowd noises: not interruptions, just a sign that the people are appreciating the story. Or ignoring it. In which case, well, their loss.
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Surprisingly, it wasn’t Duran pick that broke through the stone and changed the lives of the dwarves and another species. That was Ormin, one of his friends.
His pickaxe went down into the rock and, when it came back up, there was a hole that led into an adjacent tunnel, air hissing out of their tunnel into the other one to equalize the pressure.
“Huh, they don’t have an air pump like we do,” said Ormin.
“Or they prefer a different pressure,” suggested Griarium, their [Engineer].
“Improbable. It’s just poor air,” said Duran with a shake of his head, “Let’s open this up. Using [Power Strike] Skill… now!”
As he said this his pickaxe came down and, with a small explosion of dust, the wall in front of them basically disappeared.
On the other side, three women stared at them, one of them with her mouth open wide showing off her exceedingly pointy canines. Their hair were cut short, two of them with pixie cuts, while one of them had outright cut them all off, showing only a pale skull with tattoos around her ears. But what really struck the dwarves as interesting was the fact that, where normally there would be legs, these ladies had what looked like the bodies of spiders.
For a moment silence reigned in the tunnels, but it was soon broken by Duran coughing slightly and activating a few Skills: “[Equalize Pressure], [Purify Air].”
Immediately the air around them, which had started to feel slightly heavier, their ears feeling pressure, was as good as new and Duran noticed the ladies in front of them take deep breaths and smiling slightly.
Then… he bowed: “Good…” he checked his [Internal Clock], “afternoon, my fine ladies. It appears we’ve trespassed upon your tunnels. We’re extremely sorry, we had no idea this area of Aknos had been claimed by another species, nor that it had started mining at this depth. If you’d be willing to you could come back with us to Command and we could sort this out.”
He frowned, then looked back: “Hoy, Egrius! Where in the Grandfathers’ beards are we?”
Egrius, the [Driver], looked thoughtful for a moment, then checked the still air with a dry finger, and soon after nodded: “We’re close to the center of Aknos, I’d wager under the Lakes.”
Huh, they’d dug quite far. Also, he didn’t know about any civilization living near the Lakes, but then again, Mountainhome didn’t care much for things that happened outside, on the surface.
“So, would you care to come back with us? Or would you rather call one of your leaders to sort this out? Have no fear, Egrius here drives a small minecart, but there’s always space for more people when needed.”
The women with spider halves looked at each other, cocking their heads in doubt, before nodding.
“Great. If you would, my ladies?”
He turned around, ready to tell Egrius to get ready… only to feel a pickaxe strike him in the back of his head, at the junction between skull and neck.
…
He didn’t even wince thanks to his [Adamantine Skin] Skill.
Turning around he saw three gaping spider women staring at him as if he’d just won Mountainhome’s annual ‘Beer Drinking Contest’ with an advantage of ten beers on the second place. One of them had her pickaxe moved over her shoulder as if ready to strike again.
He raised an eyebrow and shook his head: “Oh no no no no no no my lady, you’re doing it all wrong.”
He walked towards the woman, who flinched away from him, trying to skitter backwards, but his hands moved faster as he grabbed her pick and her waist.
“If you want to weaponize your pickaxe you can’t swing it like an ax. You’re going to lose half the strength of the blow.”
He moved his hands and adjusted her position.
“No matter the situation, a pickaxe is always a pickaxe, whether one uses it as a tool or as a weapon. There, try it this way.”
He moved away, moving a rock in front of her and pointing at it.
The woman didn’t move, instead staring at him, like the other two, as if he’d been speaking a different language. Maybe he had?
“Wait, do you understand Aknian? If not I can also speak Irevian and a bit of Evarion. No Rodian though I’m afraid.”
Finally, one of the women opened her mouth to do something other than gape at him: “We just tried to kill you.”
Duran looked at them… and shrugged: “So? Not like it’s the first time someone tries to kill me. This bunch of idiots with me today tried to do it on a daily basis when I’d just started training them.”
Some groans came from behind him together with a few ‘Come on man, it was only once’.
“Don’t worry, it happens. And I’m pretty hard to kill. I understand completely if you felt like killing us was the only way to keep your mining rights on this place, but there’s no need to worry, our people back in Mountainhome are very understanding. They’ll check everything out and pay you back for anything that was mined in your terrain without permission. You’ll be able to choose whether the payment will be in money or the minerals that were found. You’d be surprised how often this happens.”
By often, naturally, he meant it happened once every fifty to a hundred years, which many would see as a lot of time, but was mostly ‘pocket change’ for your average dwarf.
“Still, if you desire to stay in this tunnel to make sure nothing is taken or done while you’re out, we absolutely understand. We can send a message up there and ask for the people in charge to come down here.”
Slowly, one of the arachne nodded, and immediately one of Duran’s colleagues sent a [Memo] up to Mid-Depth Control asking for an intermediary and a [Mathematician].
A moment later the arms of the arachne whose position the dwarf had corrected finally gave up and she let the instrument fall on the rock, breaking it cleanly in two.
Duran nodded appreciatively: “See? And that’s just with gravity on your side. Imagine if you’d put some strength behind it!”
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Gratianus looks at the glass of dwarven alcohol he’s holding and, after a moment, drinks it all down, to the absolute horror of the [Barman].
Luckily for… everyone, [It Was All an Act]. The [Storyteller] smiles at the public, then fakes a stumble and a burp.
“Whoa, this stuff is strong.”
And then he lets the glass fall to the ground, where it breaks apart, the sound of tinkling shards going everywhere filling the very silent room. Everyone is listening now, some in shock, others in excitement, all with open curiosity.
“Is it true?” asks one of the women who’s helped him get started. He decides not to shush her.
Instead he smiles enigmatically: “Given enough time, my lady, all stories become true. Now, who would like to hear the end of this tale?”
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The dwarves sat down on the ground and, from their bags of holding enchanted with Preservation Spells, took out snacks and drinks.
That’s the thing about dwarves: they always have snacks. No matter the situation, no matter the place, a dwarf will always have snacks on their person one way or another. It’s almost a Law in its own right and there have been many times when their secret stashes of food saved many parties of adventurers, or people in general, from starvation.
The group motioned the spidery women near them who, after a moment of hesitation, joined them, sitting near them, their legs hugging their spidery bodies and kneading the chitin.
“If I’m not being rude,” started Griarium, “What’s your species? I’ve never heard of spider beastfolk.”
The bald woman cocked her head to the side in what the dwarves were beginning to understand was either curiosity or surprise. Then she said: “You do not fear us. Or hate us. Why?”
Griarium choked on his sandwich, his left hand left hovering in the air and trembling in the act of offering one to the spidery ladies, leaving one of his companions to answer the, for the dwarves, decidedly strange question.
Ormin did that: “Why should we hate or fear you? We’re all [Miners] here, and [Miners] must support each other. The earth is filled with gifts, but it is not kind to those who do not respect her and take the right precautions. If you’re reached this far down it means you’re good at your job, which means you deserve, of all things, a healthy dose of respect.”
At that moment Griarium finally managed to dislodge the piece of food that had been attempting to murder him and, taking deep breaths, said: “What - huff huff - he said. Wanna sandwich?”
Duran raised a flask of beer: “We also have drinks if you want. Not too strong, we’re on the job, but bosses up there say that alcohol’s to dwarves like oil to a sword. Can’t have one without the other,” they all chuckled, except for the ladies.
Finally, the one who had yet to speak so far opened her mouth: “We are arachne. A new species made by Death herself to destroy all life on this planet.”
Silence fell on the tunnel like a boulder, only less catastrophically than an actual boulder falling in the tunnel, which would’ve probably been a death sentence.
Then Duran shrugged: “Welp, pleasure to meet you. The name’s Duran and me and this lot here are dwarves.”
He took a sip of beer, offering it again to the arachne: “Made by Death you say? I think I heard somewhere that that’s sort of taboo or something like that. Must be interesting, being a middle finger to the gods just by existing.”
And now the arachne were gaping at him again.
“What? Do I have something on my face? Other than dust, that is. I think we’re all dusty down here.”
The bald arachne closed her mouth, opened it again to say something, raising a finger, then closed it again and frowned. Finally, she said: “We just told you we exist to destroy all life. Life, such as you. And you still don’t fear or hate us.”
Duran and the others shrugged: “You said it: you were made to kill. Doesn’t mean it’s what you’ll be doing. I don’t see you going around murdering people: I see you down here mining. That’s what matters to the lot of us.”
He shook the bottle holding his beer towards them invitingly, a small smile on his lips.
“So. Wanna be friends?”
After another moment of silence the three arachne broke out laughing and the bald one took the proffered bottle and drank a hearty sip.
“Sure. The name’s Chishi. As a friend, you can call me Chi.”
She handed the bottle to the other arachne who took it gratefully and drank from it with great satisfaction and a good amount of lip-smacking.
“Are all dwarves like you Duran?” asked Chi.
He shook his head: “Nah. There are many who are even better than me.”
And that is how the arachne met the only people who’d ever call them friends, even to their detriment.
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He finishes telling his tale and bows.
The room is silent, so silent in fact that everyone can hear a mosquito buzzing somewhere inside.
Then one of the women claps: “Bravo! That was great!”
And like a dam breaking the room is suddenly filled with clapping and whistling.
The [Storyteller] bows again, tipping a hat that was never there and never will be, for that was the price for learning all that he did to tell these tales.
“Is there a follow up to the story?”
That’s what the woman who complimented him first asks him a few minutes later after he’s come down from the table.
Smiling he answers: “Oh, there is. I won’t tell it tonight, but I will be back for it.”
The woman nods, putting a hand in her pocket and taking out five gold coins. Five, the number of stories.
“Take these. Payment for your services tonight, and to make sure you’ll come back.”
He smiles: “Ah, someone who remembers the Traditions, I see. Then, my lady, I most certainly will come back.”
And with that he bows and begins walking out of one of the most ill-famed bars in the city of… he cannot remember the name. But he’s sure his friends will bring him back here.
The crows take flight and caw in happiness as some land on his shoulder while others fly near him, showing him the way to his next tale.
Yes, giving up his hat was worth this.