Early in the morning, before the harsh sun had even peeked above the orange-brown mud of the Badlands, a sturdy stone fortress sat nestled into the aged gray rocks of the Iron-Peak Mountains, buzzing with activity. Dwarves, with beards thick and stature short, bustled about their mountain home, eager to start the day's work. Miners gathered their tools from the storehouses tucked deep in the depths of the hold, ready to provide the clan with the vital lifeblood of ore from the dangerous mining tunnels. Engineers prepped their workshops with trinkets and contraptions and masons hurriedly made lists of all the day's repairs to the ancient hold's stone. One group, however, stood out from the rest as other dwarves moved from their paths as they readied their work. Clad in smocks and protective metal beard plating these dwarves moved like a silent procession gathering fuel, ore, and tools of well-wrought iron, moving them all to one incredible vaulted room in the heart of the dwarven keep. The preparations were made and there was a single moment of still before a rush of commotion began with an entirely new fervor. The miners clanked in the dark echoing up through the halls above, hammers fell and chisels cleft, and the forge's fires bellowed with rage. The vaulted room was electric with anticipation as every item gathered from the stores lay perfectly in its place. Two giant runed doors creaked open as a lone dwarven figure stepped into the room, making all the workers sweat. A second figure appeared next to the first, slightly shorter in stature, with a bundle of parchment and quill in hand. The figure's booming voice shook the very mountain as he stepped forward to inspect the room.
"Kraggi! Did you prepare everything I asked?"
The shorter dwarf nodded, checking his lists again nervously. The dwarves in the room stood hands behind their backs in front of worktables and furnaces, their backs instinctively straightening at the sound of the taller dwarf's terrible voice.
"Alright. Listen up! I'm talking to all you beardlings who stand quivering in my sacred forge. If you think you're ready to work the rhunes… You aren't! I've worked this forge for longer than this mountain has even stood. I learned from Grungni himself and don't you forget it! Now, some of you may have some new-fangled ideas about how things should be done, and to that I say: save it for the Umgi, because I won't hear it! We do things right or we don't do them at all, and if I find you slacking, you lazy wazzocks, I'll boot you back to the mines faster than you can say kruti! Now… Enough standing around prattling like elgi, get to work!"
In a flash, the forge was alive as Thorek Ironbrow stepped fully into the room, the heavy doors closing behind him. Kraggi, his long-suffering assistant, trailed closely behind as Thorek took his place at the anvil of doom. Rune assistants buzzed around Ironbrow as he meticulously crafted masterworks that would take three lifetimes for any other dwarf. The heat was stifling, and one dwarf lost his grip on his tongs sending them clattering to the stone floor. Without a moment's pause Thorek hurled a hunk of iron at the dwarf's head knocking him out cold. Not one other worker stopped to help the now slumbering dwarf, instead keeping to their work in fear of becoming the next target.
"LET THAT BE A LESSON TO ALL OF YOU SKOFRUTZ!" The ancient dwarf bellowed, "Now get that wazzock out of my forge before he offends all the ancestors with his limp arms! I won't accept such umgak work. If you can't handle the heat, get out of the forge!"
Two rune assistants dragged the unconscious dwarf out of the room as an armored dwarf dragging a beard of legendary size stood just outside the door of the forge. His helmet bore two great wings and upon his back was a white fur cloak taken from some magnificent beast. The dwarf called out across the din of the forge to the vengeful smith still toiling at the end of the room.
"Thorek, that was my nephew, I understand if they don't meet your standards, but you can't go injuring kin."
"King Kazador I should have known you would be disturbing my work today. Cussing beardlings don't know the meaning of hard work. A good wallop might sort him out, you should be thanking me! Now then, what can the sons of Thungni do for you today?" Thorek called back quickly, his rhythmic hammering unceasing.
"No forge business today rhunki. Put down your hammer we've got to talk." The king spoke little in contrast to the runelord's ramblings. His eyes were stoic and his frown deep.
The smith grumbled into his beard. He turned away to stoke the forge to avoid the leveled stare of the king.
"It'll put us behind schedule… And the apprentices are only sixty years into their training they need all the practice they can get… Plus the caravan from Black Iron will be here next week…"
Thorek muttered weak excuses half-heartedly, as he knew he would relent to the king's command. He sighed deeply, putting aside his tools and removing his smock.
"Fine. Better make this quick or there'll be a runk to be sure. Kraggi, keep watch for now, and don't be getting any fancy ideas or I'll give you a good thwacking when I get back."
The two dwarves walked to a meeting chamber of the king somewhere deep within the halls of the karak. The two sat quietly and King Kazador pulled out a thoroughly indecipherable sheet of parchment etched with what appeared to be a map. Thorek stared silently at the thing, unsure of what it meant, before Dragonslayer spoke.
"This is a survey map that some prospectors took earlier this month. A deep survey, deeper than they usually do, and they found something. The site is about four klicks north." Kazador pointed to a section of the map with a cluster of markings over it. "This is what they found, a flow of something they call 'World Blood' which they say is a name for the hottest magma found only in the deepest heart of the world."
Thorek spoke in a gravely tone, "What does that help us? I could use heat like that, but there's no way to bring it all the way up here and how would we reach it in the first place if the cussing thing is so deep." His brow knitted together in thought.
"The engineers guild from Zhufbar caught wind of this somehow. One of theirs is on his way to test some kind of drilling machine and he says this is the perfect opportunity. As for getting it back up I've heard word of a new pump machine stronger than anything they've built before, but it still needs another hundred or so years before it's perfected, but they could add the prototype to pump the stuff right into the hold." The king said, leaning back in his chair.
"Deb machines and umgak drills… Whatever happened to a sturdy pick and a strong dawi to swing it? These beardlings are-"
"ENOUGH! This is important Thorek and I'm far too busy to hear your grumblings this morning. The guilds say these World Blood pockets shouldn't be this far up, we need miners down there to find out why before we are forced to relive the time of woes all over again. If the World Blood is shifting up it could seep into the lower depths and threaten the mines." The lord's patience snapped at the ancient grumbler as the thought of his hold in fiery ruin overtook him.
Ironbrow looked annoyed, but pressed onward, "Fine. What will you have of me then? Valaya knows I'm too old to be on boki duty."
"The rock at that depth is too hard for normal picks no matter how well forged, only dalmakaz will do."
The old smith pulled his beard in pride, his annoyance forgotten in the face of a challenge for his unmatched skill, "Then you've certainly come to the right dwarf. Aye, I'll have it done and those picks will split drakscale."
The king nodded and quickly left to return to his duties, leaving the old timer alone in the hall. Thorek stroked his snowy forked beard, deep in thought, and muttered to himself wistfully.
"A proper challenge… Old Dhumgrong used to forge a hundred tools like that… Back before they all forgot how, daft wazzocks."
Deep below the dwarf's feet the world was churning with fire and rock. An evil old and slumbering was waking from beneath, its half sleeping breaths melting its stone chamber of hibernation. Its black heart pumped new blood through ancient veins and its twisted mind stoked the forge of malice by which it lived. Timeless misfortune and ruin were coming for the ill-fated dawi once more.