The Awakening
It is silent down here, at the roots of the world, save for the tapping of the pickaxes. The rock-eaters hunt mithril, the silver beyond price. They must seek it deep in the heart of the earth, where the rock has no memory of light. The air is warm and stale. It is sweaty work.
A rumble from beyond stops them. Deeming it an earth tremor, they retreat. But they are wrong. For the sleeper has awoken, and follows like death. Their last thoughts are of shadow wreathed in flame.
It is silent, again, at the roots of the world.