You approach this ravaged dwarf. As his gaze meets yours you note the heavy hatchet scars on his face, neck and arms, telling you that this is truly a "dwarf who lived". With a spit of tobacco he begins to talk about dwarf affairs, dwarf politics, the fates and struggles of the dwarf diaspora. He is dismissive about the prospect of a peaceful homeland in the maze - "No peace here" he says firmly "only Kobolds". With lowered voice, he tells you of the internal struggles in this shanty town, and of the more traditionalist dwarf burghers who are wary of placing their fate in new technology such as the Super Drill Tank X. As the conversation winds down, he asks you if you can spare some goblets until Thursday. His crestfallen face haunts you as you break eye contact and walk away... |