Under the Mountain, cold and bleak

Heed visitors, to the City of Tunnels;

Let shivered breath guide your heart

Past the forges and stores

Through the streets of glittering stone

Away, away, to the outskirts of town

To a porch, quaintly wooden,

Loved by an elder and their flame

Always keeping open an extra chair

For those who have yet to master

This loving mountain’s gentle bite

…

“… and this here, shorthair, is the Doughy Expense. First place my Runefather took me to eat, and if you ask me …”

The dwarf - whom he now knows to be his own ‘runefather’ - leans closer and mutters in a very non-discreet way;

“the only place y’oughta go, hmhmhm! Nothin’ comes close!”

For the past three hours he's been touring through the city of Gashtun Nanil in a state of absent shock. After he started to walk around the streets themselves the wonder wore off but he's still thinking about the circumstances that have put him here. It must've been some form of soul capture, although that is mostly known for use among summoners and necromancers. Creators of golems and automatons use the same thing as well in special cases, and he hasn't noticed anyone mentioning or showing signs of being anything but a dwarf or their respective own species his entire time here. It seems like something he would've been told about by now. A warning, a heads up or a confirmation that it is normal, at least –

He returns to reality when he is pulled along into the Doughy Expense. It is a tall stone structure, engraved countless times to the point where it seems cluttered and useless in its designs, but then he's also noticed there being a great number of old useless things in this city that everyone refuses to be rid of. The interior carries an entirely different vibe. It has plank floors – derived from some kind of calming dark orangish wood - and fire lighting, in the form of candles and a large hearth built into one of the far walls. There is a good number of customers present, appearing to be mostly dwarves, who are participating in all sorts of bread related meals. Immediately the aroma catches him and he straightens himself up with interest, new stomach grumbling, which causes his guide to chuckle with mirth. His rough hand places itself against his back, which now has a basic robe clinging to it, and takes him in tow towards the counter.

Behind it is a short stout woman, wearing some disposable clothing covered completely in flour along with an apron of leather, who smiles with glee upon seeing the carver.

“Durol! Haah, … another shorthair? How many is that now, ehh?”

The guide, supposedly named Durol, tosses some coins on the counter without bothering to count them. This is the first time he's seen currency up close and he takes one of the coins out of curiosity while the two of them speak.

“Not too many, I'd like to think! Can't be more than … 10 total? No, more like, … well, after we hit that new deposit the nobles demanded we keep making dwarves ‘til we've got no more of the stuff left. Pays well, as I'm sure you would agree?”

“Yeah, think I would. You keep bringing in carvlings hun, my wallet won’t be sad.”

“Sure - you buy that new stove yet?”

“Noo, the damned merchant’s outta stock. I gotta wait until next week …”

“That’s - hohh! How do you run out of stoves?!”

“Right??! I have no clue.”

“Say, have you heard …”

… the conversation fades into the background of his mind while he holds the coin up to his eyes. It seems to be a silver coin, or at least a material very like silver, and has been flawlessly minted. It doesn't feel like it is impure or an alloy of any kind although he's no expert. Both sides feature the same kind of engraving –some runes which he figures to spell out the cities name, along with a strange symbol composed of 11 diamonds. They seem to follow a sequence with one diamond being alone at the top and then one being alone at the bottom, with the remaining diamonds in between them being arranged in an asymmetrical order. They also have designs engraved with them although they are difficult to see.

The coin is plucked from his hand while he is pondering its nature further and he stirs, looking between the two of them who happen to be staring at him with smiles.

“We’re gonna need that, shorthair,” Durol says. He clicks it back down onto the counter with a press of his thumb and it is taken by the woman behind the counter. She pauses to fix some of her brown hair – the same color as the bread she's been making –back into her bun before moving into the kitchen and getting to work on an order he never heard.

“you were starin real intent-like at it bud. You got anything you need to ask?”

“… What’s its worth?”

“Ehh, … five, just about.”

He blinks at the runesmith blankly after just being given a number.

“Five what?”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“… tch, five coins, lad!”

“What is a normal coin worth then?”

“One tenth of a square one, aye.”

“What material was it?”

“Silver. Top ones’re made of gemsteel, normals are usually jus’ iron. How’re you feeling so far, with everything? You got a good grip on things?”

He takes a moment to seriously consider this question. There were a lot of things he still did not understand but he feels he could figure them out, over time. The idea of staying in this foreign peculiar city though, when he still felt like an outsider, …

… something else has also been bothering him. His name from the life he remembers is Eranshi but he’s yet to be given one here, in this new weird body and place.

“Yes, somewhat. What is my name?”

Durol takes in a quiet breath and then lets out a long dithering hum as he thinks about the question. As the dwarf starts muttering a few options to himself Erashi turns away to observe the rest of the bakery. It has lighting coming from the ceiling as well combined with the candles from before, although they seem to be the weakest source and are mostly there for aesthetic purposes. Large metal chandeliers – bronze or copper, perhaps – holstered with tall melty candles and decorated with images of dwarven culinary arts. There's enough depictions of bread scattered around this place that even the deaf and blind could surmise what the place’s purpose is. He looks to the arrangement of the tables, spread out as squares with four chairs each, and has his attention pulled away before he can scrutinize the customers next.

“Tantuzaar.”

“… uhm.”

Durol narrows his eyes a little and crosses his arms, “Do y’not like it?”

“It is a little odd?”

“That was the name of Tantuzaar the Adventurer, who found the Lairs of Perpetuity! Whas odd’bout it!?”

“……. well, it begins with a T.”

“Why’s that - what? What’s a T?”

“The - the uh - the letter. The first letter. I don't know what it's called, I cannot read.”

The runesmith takes this time to look up to the ceiling, stroke his beard, turn around to see if anyone else heard this absurdity, and then he leans close and says in a low voice;

“Yes, you can. Don’t be cute ‘bout this.”

Tantuzaar does a double take at this and rest his hand on the arm of his guide and leans in close himself,

“No, no I really can't. You haven't taught me. “

“You shouldn’t have to be taught!”

Durol’s voice comes out as a harsh whisper and draws the eyes of the baker from behind the counter, who perks around to see exactly what's going on.

“… you two alright out there?”

“Yes! We’re good? … Hahahah?”

The unconvincing voice of the older dwarf just makes the baker roll her eyes and nudge two plates of food forward toward the pair.

“Whatever it is, I don’t wanna know. Enjoy the bread! “

She beams a smile over before moving to the next set of customers. Tantu, which he’ll now shorten for his own sake, is dragged along to a table by Durol who himself has grabbed both plates. From the few glances he manages to get of them they seem to be hefty loaves with sides of butter, jam, as well as some very odd choices for toppings like mushrooms and what looks to be glowing worms. He has no clue what to make of these culinary choices although taking one more look around confirms that these are normal, and he should at least give them a try.

Once they are sat down he goes to grab his own plate but has his hand smack the way, eliciting a confused noise as he glares over at a frowning Durol.

“You’ll be learnin the mealing rites first, lad. Seems like you’re gonna be needin’ them, with some of the weird stunts you've been pullin.”

“What stunts?”

“Don’t you get wise with me.”

“??????”

The vocalization of six question marks as an expression of thought is a peculiar task. Sometimes words just fail a man – or in this case, a dwarf –and they are left with nothing more than a squeaky croaking noise inking itself out of a widened throat to explain their intimate thoughts.

“Now listen up, lad. Our ancestors suffered through thousands of years of a slow extinction to bring us to where we are now. No gods or whatever stoneless ilk stepped up to help us, so we don't allow any of that talk here.”

“That’s …”

“Perfectly reasonable!” Durol interjects, slapping the palm of his hand onto the table at the same time. Nobody flinches or bats an eye besides Tantu who scoots back in his chair defensively.

“Sometimes these shorthairs, they crawl outta their stones with misbegotten notions of heavenly faes an’the like. No, carvlin, none of that. The mountains know no gods and we are born of them; and so we will go back to them, quietly, with all our thanks given to those who had to dig the tunnels we tread.”

He keeps his mouth shut for now: with how these dwarves are made it could very well be true that no god considers them their own. Humans had a wide range of gods to choose from and were fortunate for it, so to be thrown into a society that is the exact opposite is …

“… jarring.”

“What?”

“You said extinction?”

“… aye, two thousand and some extra years ago our kind was reduced to less than 30 dwarves.”

Tentu tries to imagine any species pulling itself back from such a brink and cannot muster the imagination or reality of mind to do so. With any other population it would have been a guaranteed destruction but with something that can carve itself in stone, the chances did seem much higher. He scoots himself back in toward the table and motions with a pointed nod of his head for the dwarf to continue.

“Na, explainin’ all of it Will take too long. I can do it later. We’ll start with the Rites of Gratitude.”

Durol rests both of his palms flat upon the table ahead of him and, after not seeing anything for an extended time, he gathers that he is supposed to do the same and mimics the runesmith. Only after that does he begin to speak once more.

“We thank you, toiled bearded, for the table that holds our meal. The plates that carry them; the utensils that deliver, the knowledge of feasts and drinks unknowable if not for your work. … after that, although I will not do it now, you can choose a dwarf you respect from the past to give particular thanks to. It is optional.”

With this having been gotten out of the way the old dwarf grabs his bread, picks up a fist full of the glowing worms from before, and squeezes them until a glowing paste squirts out of them onto the bread. He chows down on it after with a very satisfied hum. Right after that he adds a little bit more and then tosses on some bioluminescent blue mushrooms as well. Tentu stares at his own plate and chooses to just have some of the jam instead which, after smelling it, seems to be strawberry or something equivalent.

What pops out to him more than the jam is the bread itself; the outer crust crumbles beneath his teeth with a delightful texture, while the interior is as soft as a dessert bread. The consistency remains hard enough that it can be used as a standard sandwich or meal item for spreads and accessories - all in all a wonderful bakery piece, one that he would only expect the upper classes to be dining on, yet this place is flooded with the typical dwarf and the scarce foreigner here and there. He looks over at Durol who has a big smile shining through his black white streaked beard while chewing.

“This is quite good.”

Durol looks up from his plate once Tentu says this. His smile changes direction into a familiar street - the neighborhood of pride, in that sort of humble way a craftsman manages – and he motions forward toward the opposite plate.

“Tried the jam first, ehh? The worms’re the best though, you ought t’try them next.”

“No. … no, I'm not sure how I feel about that.”

“Tch - you were just carved lad, you're not sure how to feel about anything! … ah, well, if you aren't going to eat yours …”

His grubby hands swipe up the worms and deposit them back onto his own plate, before thinking better of it and stuffing them into a pocket in his work apron instead. The expression shown by the carvling must've been suitably repulsing because he crosses his arms, sucks in a deep breath, and then slouches in a defensive way. Tantu holds both of his hands up at shoulder height and offers no further judgment on the situation. Instead the both of them finish their food in silence and soon Durol is back to proud, stoic neutrality sprinkled with scrutiny.

“Now, lemme start from the beginnin’. There was the first mountain home, which all called Gim Onul …”