People under the mountain

We were talking about state of the dwarves, about them goddess and their craftBut behind the guilds, temples, and anvils live the gnomes—noisy, stubborn, big-hearted little fellows who begin life with a pickaxe in their hands and end it with a mug. It's time to take a closer look at them.

Homeland in ashes

The current land of the dwarves is not the great kingdom that fell at Mlan. This Mithril Mines, raised on the bones of the former state.

"The survivors of the orcs' vicious raids settled here in the Ridge Mountains and developed this mine to rebuild the Dwarf Kingdom."

Pippi the Collector, Mithril Mines

The dwarven homeland today is a settlement of refugees who stubbornly dig for mithril where they were once nearly slaughtered. But even here, an old problem haunts them: the mine once stretched for hundreds of tunnels, but now mithril is taken from only a few—the rest have collapsed. EarthwormThe guild has long wanted to restore the tunnels and increase production, but things are stalled:

"Our timid elders are afraid that the Earthworm might awaken... Maybe from old age, but they are all cowards. Pippi could deal with that Earthworm with one fist!"

Pippi the Collector, Mithril Mines

This is the home the dwarves live in: a homeland rebuilt on the ashes, above a sleeping devil, where every strike of a pickaxe risks waking doom. And yet they dig.

Born with a Pickaxe

That's why a gnome's life begins not in a temple or a shop, but in a mine. A young gnome is first taken to the open pit to learn the art of mining.

"Nice to meet you, young friend! I'm the senior dwarf at this open pit and have trained many fine young dwarves here. Have you obtained your miner's license?"

Senior Foreman Laferon (#206)

Miner's license — this is where every dwarf begins, no matter what kind of craftsman, merchant, or seeker they later become. Before forging, trading, and traveling, a dwarf learns to mine. The pickaxe is his first cradle; the land of Maphr is his first teacher.

Loud Hearts

Don't think that the people of abacuses and anvils are boring. On the contrary, gnomes are noisy, boastful, and absurdly charming. Take the collector, for example. Gouph from the Bronze Key, which composes songs of praise to itself:

"I'm Gouph! A gnome among gnomes! If my darling asks, I'll even pull out the teeth of a fierce dragon! Yippie!.. Oh, and you... have you been standing here for a long time? Did you... hear everything?"

Gouph assembler, Bronze Key

There is also a bully Pippi, which threatens to single-handedly kill the Earthworm. There are also Torocco, a courier for the same Bronze Key, renowned for his work—and ruined by weakness: drink and gambling drove him into debts he could never repay in a lifetime, to shame before the guild, and to the ridicule of his family. Behind the loud laughter of dwarven feasts, where old friends drink "until they're senseless," hides this dark side: the same passion that drives them to profit sometimes leads them to ruin.

And yet, at their core, a dwarf is honest with that special, dwarven honesty. They have an old custom: always pay for the help provided and always give what is due. The dwarf haggles loudly and boasts, but he pays his debt down to the last penny.

The form that is already in stone

But beneath all this noisy bustle of everyday life lies a quiet wisdom—the kind that even elven smiths come to the dwarves to learn from. The maestro expressed it best. Ishuma:

"A good smith finds in the steel the tool or blade that is already hidden within it; he does not try to force his will upon the metal."

Maestro Ishuma, Black Anvil

That's the whole dwarf in one sentence. He doesn't argue with the world or bend it to his will—he listens to things and releases what's already there. This is how a dwarf treats steel, stone, and fate: he doesn't fight them, but works with them. That's why dwarven craftsmanship is unmatched, and even elven craftsmen travel to the northern Kingdom of the Dwarves to learn to craft adamantite and orichalcum from those who received the craft from the goddess of the earth herself.

Those who hold the world

Here they are, the children of Maphr, up close and unadorned: not heroes or sages, but miners, blacksmiths, merchants, and drunkards who lost their king and kingdom—and simply continued to work. They laugh loudly, drink heavily, haggle desperately, and pay their debts to the last copper. They live in the ashes, above the sleeping devil, and still they dig, forge, and wait for their king.

And perhaps it is precisely in this unassuming solidity that their true strength lies. Taller and louder nations make history and perish in it; but the dwarves simply do what history is built on—and remain. While somewhere in the Ridge Mountains a dwarven pickaxe hammers and a dwarven anvil rings, Aden has solid ground beneath its feet. And so the people live beneath the mountain: quietly, stubbornly, and securely supporting the entire noisy world above on their short shoulders.