“Stooooone-breeaaaakerrrr!”
The bellow accompanied the appearance of Orik, of clan Stonebreaker, as he burst through the tunnel wall. Striding across the rubble, he tossed aside the mighty pick-hammer that had performed the task, dropped his lantern-helmet on the ground, and lowered his armored bulk onto a rock. “Time for a smoke,” he boomed, one pipe of the hookah already sticking out through his bountiful, flowing beard.
Kort, of the Warbeard clan, looked at the new arrival without turning his body, and the many inscribed tablets woven into his beard jingled as he did. “The way you treat your equipment is unbecoming of a dwarf, Stonebreaker,” he said. “Put it away properly so you don’t shame your ancestors.” He looked back at the embers heating their cookpot. “And must you shout that warcry every time you cut a new tunnel?”
“Better than those invectives to great Marrok you cry out,” said the Stonebreaker. “‘By Marrok’s twisted testicles!’” he mimicked. But his wide grin never left his face, and he picked up and dusted off his pick with care.
“Were you followed?” asked the Spellforger. Six rune-inscribed tablets of stone circled his head, as they always did, and made the Stonebreaker lean away as the Spellforger leaned in, as they always did.
“We didn’t see a thing,” said the Stonebreaker.
The Spellforger harumphed. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t followed,” he said, before he turned back to the half-ruined carving he’d been examining before the Stonebreaker’s return.
“Orik,” said the Godbinder, handing over a bowl of hot stew as he filled it, adding a smile and a splash of whiskey. “Easy enough trip?”
“Plenty easy, Vasa.” He took the bowl and started eating with a spoon from his belt. “These young folk studied up. Not like the last bunch. These kids knew what they were doing.”
“Speaking of the kids,” the Godbinder paused and stroked a finger from his eyebatch down his beard. “Where are they?”
“Down the tunnel a ways,” said the Stonebreaker. “Told ‘em I had to scout the new tunnel to make sure it was clear of gloamlings before I brought ‘em along. Any time now they’ll figure out we went in a circle and catch me up.” He took another mouthful of stew, then another puff from the hookah. “As if I’d take ‘em anywhere near the poisonous little buggers.”
“The bite of a gloam kin is not venomous,” said the Wayfinder, “nor do they envenom their weapons.” She sat crosslegged near the fire, her spear across her lap.
“Course they are,” said the Stonebreaker. “They got their poison bite when the god Humeriel cursed the six forgotten dwarf lords for daring to brave his realm, and their clans became the gloamlings. ‘For all time shall your lineage be poisoned’ and all that.”
“The quote refers to the tainting of the clans, not actual poison,” said the Warbeard.
“Besides,” said Van, of clan Tinkersmith, “everyone knows it was the legendary smith Alor who forged the gloamlings from the souls of those dwarves who had doomed their souls. She alloyed them with shadow, so they’d not be seen, and cowardice, so they would flee the light. But she did her job too well, and the gloamlings learned the trick of invisibility. And being too fearful to craft their own goods, they steal ours.”
“Gloamlings can’t become invisible,” said the Spellforger.
“Sure they can,” said the Stonebreaker.
“If they could, we’d all already be meat hanging in their larders.” And the Spellforger looked at his companions, and then at all the shadowy corners of the tunnel, as though a gloamling would leap from it.
“Gloam kin do not eat dwarves,” said the Wayfinder, still staring off down the tunnel. “Though they do love the taste of our defeat. One wonders whence their enmity for us.”
“They’re pissed that we’re still dwarves and they’re not,” said the Tinkersmith, with a “Yeah!” from the Stonebreaker. “And they do eat dwarves,” she added. “I’ve seen skeletons--”
“My forebears have walked these tunnels and marked its secrets ways since the first dwarf carved himself from the living stone itself. We have seen all there is to--”
“Yes,” said the Warbeard, “All of our ancestors have traveled through the tunnels of the earth since our people were a people. Some of us remember what is and what has been better than others.” He eyed his massive shield, inscribed with family lore. “No reason to argue over legends and stories of the gloam.”
“Besides,” said the Spellforger, “Everyone knows a gloamling can crawl inside a dead dwarf and make him walk around until he starts to rot.” Shouts drowned him out, even as he yelled, “It’s true!”
“Legends and stories are good fun, but shouldn’t we be telling them with the young ‘uns here?” said the Godbinder. “Orik, shouldn’t they be here by now?”
“By Marrok’s braided butthairs,” cried the Stonebreaker, leaping up and upsetting his empty bowl. “What could have gotten to them?” He turned to look fearfully down the tunnel he’d made, and within moments, the others had all disappeared down the tunnel, weapons in hand. All but the Godbinder, who waited with the stationary Stonebreaker.
“Where are they?” asked the Godbinder.
“Behind that wall.” The Stonebreaker nodded at the wall behind the Godbinder.
“That was a good one,” said his friend. “Get ‘em back in here, and we can pretend they were here the whole time.”
“Got it in one,” said the Stonebreaker, standing up and hefting his massive pick-hammer.
“Stooooone-breeaaaakerrrr!”