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A collection of short tales based around my WFB/AOS dwarf army, I hope you enjoy!

I am reposting them here from Bugman’s Brewery, a great dwarven forum which all dwarf players should join!
(or even duardin, whatever they are)

When dealing with Giants...
Dwarf Pacifist Tactics

The storm raged around the mountains, wolves howled in the dark forests, hail rattled off the helmet of the dwarven gate-guard who squinted into the cruel weather. Drontal Wyrmbane pulled his fur cloak closer around him and held his hand over his eyes, he swore he had seen something…
…There it was! The hulking shape of a giant who had followed the valley down from the northern pass, obviously seeking shelter from the storm. Drontal gritted his teeth and fumbled for the gate keys. Once inside he clattered down the stone stairs until he reached the Inner Gate Hall and shouted to the Inner Gate Keeper of the giant. The Inner Keeper pulled on a rope which rang a bell far down inside the mountain…

Modsogni Thunderforge, King under the Mountain, was eating breakfast when the news came to him.
“Giant?” he spluttered through a mouthful of porridge. “Not on MY mountain! Fetch the guard! – and my axe! – and my clothes!” He thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on the stone table.
“Wait…” a dozen dwarves halted mid scurry. “In the 12th Hall off Shaft Eight there’s the Horn of Dargle, behind were we keep the hosepipe. Better bring that I’d say.”

Not too long after, King Thunderforge stood, knee deep in snow, bearskin cloak blowing in the gail; hail clinking off horned helmet. Behind him two stout ranks of Ironbreakers, shivering slightly. Drontal Wyrmbane with an awkward half bow, jerked his thumb towards the giant who had lumbered closer to the Hold Gate, still dimly unaware of the dwarves. “Giant, sire.” The King stamped a hand on Drontal’s shoulder and thanked him vaguely. The Horn of Dargle was the artefact prescribed in the Taktik-a-Kron for best insurance against a Giant incursion. It was a three feet foot cone of hammered iron, open at both ends. The King raised it to his mouth and with a deep breath spake unto the Giant:
“Oi! Giant!” The Giant looked around slowly. “Oi! Sod off!” The King waved his gauntleted hand at him. The Giant grunted and began to shamble off down the valley again. As the dwarves watched him go, the King tossed the heirloom to Drontal.
“Stick it back in the hall will yer. Say what you like about my ancestors, but I still think old Dargle was a ruddy pacifist.”

More than the usual old Ore...

Duran Duransson liked rock; good solid stuff, quite interesting to look at too he’d always thought. Always a new surface, always a new shade, always the prospect of what might be found underneath the next layer. He was a miner by trade, and had been since he could lift a pick. In the cold darkness he spent his days breaking rock from rock, swinging his pickaxe…

Clunk! This mine feels Clunk! much warmer than Clunk! it should do Clunk! He thought, pausing to wipe sweat from his face.
Still, Clunk! maybe its just the Clunk! draught from the Clunk! forges on the Clunk! next shaft... Clunk! … Clunk! … Clunk! … although …Clunk! it’s Grungni’s Clunk! celebration feast Clunk! this week, so they’re Clunk! all off today Clunk! By my pick Clunk! it’s getting hot Clunk! down here! Clunk! Its as if Clunk! there’s some Clink! Duran jumped backwards and almost dropped his pick – that last clunk was a clink! He peered closely at the last place he’d hit and poked a stubby finger at the rockface. It flaked away slightly and let a beam of flickering light out through the hole. Duran applied his eye to the newly made hole, kneeling down in the debris.

“Grobi!” he exclaimed. Indeed he watched as a grubby party of goblins whooped and hollered and cavorted around an almighty fire in the midst of a natural cave. “Here?” he muttered under his breath, “Two miles deep? Below the water table? This close to our mine?!” He thought as quickly as his head would allow, stealing the cork from the ale-barrel in his pack he jammed it in the hole and legged it back along the tunnel. He grabbed Lorek by the shoulders and suddenly a wonderful money making idea popped into his head.
“Bet yer a pound in gold you can’t guess what I’ve just dug up!”

'Forever Greasy'

Surt Thunderforge, Chief Engineer, had many titles to bear in the Hold, and a great many responsibilities attached to them. To a dwarf a task was not just a thing to be done; up in the mountains lives depended on things just being done.

For example Surt was in charge of overseeing that oil was applied to the moving ironwork of the Air Circulation System. Every week Surt had to personally send a beardling down to the Hall of Stumpi Cogwasher, to summon him to report to Surt of the week’s oiling and maintenance. So vital to the Hold is this job – indeed were the mechanism to fail the whole mountain would be subject stale airs and eventually a build up of noxious dwarf ruminance which was potentially, well, pretty gross.

Indeed, so vital to the Hold that the tiny Cogwasher Clan had lived above the Air Circulation Engine Housing Hall for generations and had the family motto ‘Forever Greasy’ carved above their door. Admittedly the lubrication system was automated by one Morrel Thunderforge four hundred years ago, BUT it was the honourable duty of the Cogwashers to check the gauge pressure once a week.

Surt Thunderforge had been adjusting some tappets deep within a Class IV Steam Drop Hammer when the Royal Summons had arrived. He stood before Stumpi Cogwasher like some obsidian war god statue, coal black with soot and smoke from helm to boot. Only the furious red eyes showed life; the fury of having to sort out pointless kingly things when important tappets remained unadjusted. In one hand he held a menacing four foot mole-wrench, the other a Royal Summons slate cracked in his angered grip.

“The King says, and I quote ‘Smells like someone's drongliz in ’ere; go and fetch someone.’ – That someone happens to be me, and NOW that someone happens to be you. Its another sixteen floors up but I suggest that you stop by the Apothacary and pick up a jar of smelling salts. Because Stumpi Cogwasher, son of Bjarni Cogwasher (may your beard never fall out), if I am called away from my tappets again by one of my uncle’s thronebearers having had too many eggs for breakfast I will personally have you polish the Sump Hall floor with a size 2 wire brush. Now ’op it!”

Narven's Nnn...?

A thin shaft of light illuminated the stone chamber, books lined the walls and paper littered the floor, glassware and jars covered the surfaces. Sacks of grains lay around like slumberous toads, boxes of powders, vials of unguents and oils were stacked about any old where. Narven Axehandle squinted at the glass tubing and amber liquid flowing through it; the smell of beer filled the air. He returned attention to the pestle and mortar where he was grinding up a chunk of sulphur.

“Narven’s New? Narven’s Nice Ale?” he mused to himself. “The Nice and Nnnn- Newty? Necro-? Humph! It’ll be Nice and Nameless if nothing else!” He took a pinch of the sulphur and dumped it into the top of the glassware. Then he took a small tankard, poured out a slug and tasted it.

Dwarven ale is much more than just a drink, it contains nutrients and minerals to sustain a dwarf for journeying and hard graft; the balance of ingredients is a fine art. Narven’s boots kicked up sparks as he legged it across the room to the water butt, he flung his head in, helmet and all, splashing water everywhere. A few seconds of bubbling later he fountained up in an almighty gasp. His face red and his eyes wild; he laughed manaically “Perfect! Narven’s Napalm!!”

Who left the cannon back at the bar?!

A line of dwarves stood to rather scrawny and mismatching attention. Mail shirts hung down around knees and belts knotted around narrow waists. These were the youngest of the hold's warriors, eager to fight but not a beard among them below the belt. The King stood before them in full war regalia; long-horned helmet, bearskin cloak and the menacing and mythic Axe of Dargle in gloved hand. He eyed them severely and tapped his foot.

"Now then lads," he said gravely. "I am here to answer a few of the questions as been echoing around these tunnels."
He began to walk the line, regarding each of them carefully.

"See, what I've been hearing makes sense to be sure. Thought the same thoughts meself... 'til I'd thought about it s'more. About dwarves, lads, and what we can do. Makers of things, aye. Makers I hear you say. Mail and swords, axes and doors. Walls and locks and forges. As our hammers beat on raw metal, so we are makers. So then, us lords of stone and steel, who can make whatever might be asked? Snorri! Beat for me a cannon, thrice forged and runed well. Andvari! An axe with the skill of flight, that returns to the thrower's hand. Ketil! A steam tractor armed and armoured, fire bellied and full of flame, can you do this for me?" The King eyed Ketil closely.

"A-aye, s-sir." stuttered Ketil. " My clan are the f-finest of f-forgers Lord Th-thunderforge."
The King strode on the the next dwarfling. "Then what? As we march to war, astride our fire-belching chariots? Cannons to the left of us? Cannons to the right? A dwarf army raised upon a walking tower of destruction! Not beyond our power, simple plans of steam and powder and pipes and coils lay in guildsafes across our lands. An army of such destruction to drive the grobi out, the elves out, the skaven out." he lowered his eyes and returned to Ketil. He placed his hands on Ketil's shoulders and looked him in the eyes. The King's eyes ran with tears. "Can you pull levers while your brothers die? Can you stand there with a cannonball and load while your uncle is left beheaded by the orc? Can you honestly all tell me, who among you would not throw down your theodolite and raise your axe when another dwarf dies. Brothers, I have seen bare chested engineers stand back to back with ironbreakers while their handguns lie in the dust because a dwarf cannot stand idle when another is in need."

The King cleared his throat. "There aint nowt a cannon can do that a determined dwarf with a hammer can't achive. Wise words from a seasoned warrior. Bring your handguns if you will, but a dwarf with an axe will forever be our army. Manlings hide behind their volley guns and steam-tanks; aye, from dwarf-made plans using dwarf-made parts and I'm sure they do well with them. Indeed I once heard a cousin of mine crafted a clockwork horse for one of Sigmar's Sons, but such things are not which wins a war. Powder dampens, gearwork siezes. The only moving parts of an axe are your enemies' legs!"

He grinned at the assembled beardlings and hoiked a thumb toward the carven door. "Get yerself a mug of Narven's and tell him its on me. And let there be no more talk of engineering claptrap!" As the dwarves clattered out in a hubbub of discussion Modsogni Thunderforge, King, didn't fail to notice a small bag of iron shot abandoned on the hall floor.

Don't be late back!

The mountains; thousands of feet of black rock, shrouded in snow and storms, thick with bitter pine forests. The forests; twisted branches of ancient trees grapple in the wind, hiding beasts and cruel birds in their ranks, for miles they stretch - endless and without mercy. The trees and ice are not the worst of foes in these forsaken tracts; wolves wait to snatch the lost traveller; beastmen raze sacrifices in hidden places; the fey folk fly on stalks of yarrow to steal children in the night.

An iron helmet pushed through the undergrowth, making a path through the thick snowy gorse. The bearded head looked back often, always at guard against the things of the forest. An unlit pipe clamped fast in his teeth with a grim face of determination, the dwarf took stock of his surroundings. Surreptitiously he consulted a map and crouched down to lay a hand to the earth, when suddenly a black flapping screeching shape cannoned out of the sky. The dwarf threw himself to the ground narrowly missing the thing's claws, unfortunately the map was not so lucky.

"Argh! Ruddy Bats!" he cried, as the map flapped away into the night. A furled fist flung up out of the gorse followed by an angry head. Climbing to his feet, he brushed off the snow struggled on.

+ + +

Ethgrim Axehandle scowled. He scowled at most things, it came naturally to him. As one of the oldest dwarves in the Hold he was accosted with the job of Loremaster. An sacred duty to record and remember the history of the Clan and Hold, and oversee the arrangements for weddings, funerals and the like. At the moment he sat in the high backed Chair of Office in the Tome Hall, scowling at the fire. He held a carved slate of runes in one leathery hand and tapped on the chair's arm with the other. A mug of warmed ale sat beside him beside the mounds of books. Ethgrim's chair sat close to the hearth at the far end of the hall, which was the centre of a labyrinth of stacked books and carved slates, which had to be negotiated around to get in or out. He liked it that way, living in a nest of knowledge, behind a mountain of years. An 'ink incarceration' he allowed himself to think when he was feeling particularly poetic. But not today. Today was a darkening day, it was over two years since one of the king's clan had left the hold and not returned. He had only been granted topside for eighteen months and no word had returned. Ethgrim looked up at the iron clock above the hearth, clanking the minutes loudly. A gong sounded to mark the passing of another 24 hour shift, and Ethgrim sadly took up a silver pen to write.

'Today' he wrote. 'We mark the Passing of our Gorrin Thunderforge, son of Orrin Thunderforge, third brotherson to King Modsogni Thunderforge. Leaving the hold eighteen months past on vital errand, he did not return. We have no word and no recompence, and until these records may one day be amended, we - '
"Dammit! What is all that racket?!" He shouted. A cascade of books filled the air near the entrance as someone tried dig their way out of the mound of parchment.
"My Lord!" came a distant gasp. "Gorrin Thunderforge is returned!" Ethgrim scowled some more and slapped the pen down on the desk. He scratched his balding head and pulled on his chainmail jacket. Grabbing his axe he stumped through the canyons of books.

+ + +

Modsogni Thunderforge leaned on the table eagerly as Gorrin finished his welcoming ale. "Well, my cousin?! What's it like up there these days? And what news from the Homelands?"
"Gah! What drivel has Narven been brewing!" Gorrin clumped the tankard down and wiped his lips. "Still snowing up there, wouldn't of bothered if I'd known." He upended his sack on the table, random bit of rock, packages, bundles, candles, daggers and balls of string fell out. "Gold's up two percent though. Old Grudgebearer's sent out word for the Nemesis Crown; I said I doubt its up here, but we'd keep an eye out. Oh, and here's a postcard from Aunt Ethelda - "

Bang! The door to the King's Court Hall was slammed back and Ethgrim Axehandle stood there scowling. "Mention not the name Ethelda! Gorrin Thunderforge do you realise what chaos you have brought unto this Hold?!" He approached the table and turned scowl up to glare. Gorrin removed his helmet in respect.
"Gorrin Thunderforge you are dead to us!" announced the Loremaster. "Depart from here, foul spirit, lest I be forced to deface the hallowed pages of the Book of the Sons of Thunderforge with error and omission. By Smednir's Hand you break my heart to see you stand before me!"

The Loremaster turned away and stumped out, growling under his beard about 'crossings out' and 'coming and going'. King Thunderforge grinned hugely at Gorrin "Now there's a welcome for you! If you ever get leave to go topside again, don't be late back!"

Good things come to those who hate

Ulfin Granitehand slammed his tankard down on the table in disgust. "That's IT!" he roared. "There are insults and then there are Insults!" The dwarves around him banged their fists on the table in agreement. Ulfin noted their approval, and climbed up onto the stone table. "I am Ulfin >burp!< Granitehand and I shall stand for this no more! Us dwarves will bear hardship and loss, we are tolerant and generous, but I tell you we cannot stand Narven's cruelty a moment more! Who is with me?!" The crowd in the bar hurrahed. "I shall take this matter to the deepest; aye, I shall call this out to the King hisself!"

Modsogni Thunderforge, King under the Mountain was in his chamber, feet on the desk, reading through production sheets from the mining operations. He heard the tromp of booted feet through the stone a few levels above. "Something's up then..."

Klovan Thunderforge was duty guard to the King's Quarters, a solid, stonefaced dwarf, decked in traditional gromril armour of the clan's Ironbreakers. He held up his hammer to bar the doorway as Ulfin and the throng headed towards him. Ulfin raised his tankard as he approached. "I demand to see King Thunderforge, we are a deputation for the Grudge against Narven!" He faced Klovan and was pushed into him as the mass of hairy chainmailed clansmen piled up behind him.

"Halt!" ordered Klovan attempting to push the throng back. "I order you in the name of th-Mmph!" Ulfin's armoured knee mushed Klovan's helmet into his nose as the crowd pushed on and Ulfin had to climb over as best he could. Klovan thanked his stout armour as the iron boots of fifty dwarves stamped him hard into the stone floor.

"King Thunderforge! I am Ulfin Granitehand, Stonemason." He announced as the deputation pushed into the King's chamber. The King stood with crossed arms. "What then?" he asked sharply.

"We are proud and labour hard in this hold, we pay with honest gold and make no harsh demands. We toil in the mines and hammer on iron and stone and at the end of the day we want for nought but a chunk of stale bread and a pint of decent ale!" The gathered throng cut in with shouts of "Here! Here!" and "Aye!"
Ulfin waved them quiet. "But all we have is this gutrot that Narven brews up, it's unjust and unfair. We insist, nae, we DEMAND that something be done!" The dwarves all roared in agreement. King Thunderforge raised an eyebrow and scratched his beard.

"Now then lads," he answered. "I see your point, but who else have we got? Young Narven tries his best with what we've got, but up in these parts there's precious few of the things he needs."
"Here, your Kingship sir," said one of the dwarves, proffering a tankard. "Here's the latest, try it for yourself."
Modsogni hesitated for a moment before necking the ale. He shuddered and clenched his teeth; when he spoke it was quietly and a little hoarse.
"Tribunal. Two days time. Can't. Have. This."

+++


There was a bustle of grave importance around the Great Hall that morning. Dwarves from all the clans and guilds had gathered and milled about in consternation and confusion. Heavily armoured guards had been posted at all doors, axes at the ready to answer anyone's questions. At long last, King Thunderforge appeared from behind the throne and beat his axe three times on the stone floor. The bustle slowly increased.

"Quiet the lot o' yer!!" He shouted. "Do you want this sorted on not?! Thank you. Now, business at hand; the Deputation for the Grudge against Narven Axehandle for producing inferior quality Ale, Stout, Bitter and Spirits versus (he cast his eye around the hall) ah! Narven Axehandle." The gathered dwarves boo-ed pantomime style.

"On behalf of the Deputation stands Ulfin Granitehand, Stonemason. Granitehand, the floor is yours..."

"Thank you my Lord, although most of it was with the help of my brothers." Ulfin grinned. "Right, I speak on behalf of the assembled dwarves of this hold; all the miners, smiths, carvers, engineers, meat-smokers, pit-haulers, boot-wrights, plate-layers, gate-guards, angle-grinders, fire-lighters...[he continued for several minutes consulting from a list]. We demand that Narven Axehandle cease production immediately and that an alternative source of alcoholic bevarage be found. His produce is neither able to be drunk or quaffed without severe adverse effect, including nausea, vomiting, loss of balance, loss of sight, loss of temper, extreme irritation, mania...[again continuing from the list]. The only positive account of Narven's bilge was from Stumpi Cogwasher, Least Engineer, who said it was of great use when he had to clean the Sump Hall floor with a size two wire brush; 'came up all caustic an lovely' he said. To sum up, on behalf of the Deputation, we propose a strike imposed as of tomorrow morning's shift unless something be done about Narven."
The cheers of the gathered crowd continued for some time.

"Thank you Ulfin" the King answered. "I never thought rebellion might ever shine its ugly face in these halls. Nevertheless, based on the evidence provided (he tapped a barrel of evidence with his boot) and the opinions given by our esteemed drinkers I call Narven Axehandle, Alewright to the stand."
Narven was a nervous young dwarf with gingery whiskers who looked utterly ashamed as he stood in the stand. A black eye and a bandaged arm testified that he had got off lightly in the custody of the Ironbreakers. He pulled off his helmet and fiddled with the rim nervously.

"I-I-I'm deeply ashamed of the ale I've produced," he stammered. "I never got taught the learning of it you see. When Alefather Nargrim - my grandfather - died in the cave-ins back when, all his books were lost too. An' he never did tell me anything more than how to stir the pot. I-I-I've tried hard to do my best, with tips here and there, good advice and suchlike, but there isn't another Alewright for hundred of miles. I just wanted to be a crossbow-bolt engraver like me cousin."

The King tugged at his beard and thought deeply. The hall was filled with dwarven whispers, ear to ear of what could be done. Some muttered of the slayer's path, others talked of casting him out, a few spoke of sending him away to be taught, until the King tapped his axe on the stone floor again.

"Now hear this," he decared. "It is the decision of Modsognir Thunderforge, King under the Mountain, to keep Narven Axehandle as our Alewright. He has tried his hardest to work in a seam of expertise outside his abilities. We will suffer him three clauses; Firstly that we shall send forth to the Guild of Ales, Beers and Meadwrights for any learning that they can send. He will learn what he can. Secondly, that he will henceforth take an Apprentice of his own choosing within the month. And thirdly, (and most importantly) that to his apprentice he will pass on NOTHING of his teachings or understanding in the craft."

The hall rang with shouts and bellows.

"And finally, a message to you all. Until the condition has improved, I remind you that many of your wives brew ale at home, if you are in such dire need that you will not drink Narven's at the Inn, then you can return to your homes and sup in the company of your mothers, wives and daughters! Does anyone have any objection?!"

The crowd stayed mysteriously silent.

"Then consider this an end to it! Who wants a pint?"

High Spirits

The Right Honourable Judge Surdwold sat with his head in his hands in his hallway. It would all start again soon if they couldn't fix it. For weeks he had been plagued by spirits, it was since he condemned some warlock to hang, the filthy mage had whispered a curse before he'd dropped and that was that. Wind rattled the shutters on the window. Of course he'd been to the Church of Sigmar first, who'd reassured him that no succh things as ghosts existed; then to the wizards up in their hilltop school, they'd tried to sell him some jewellery - as if that would work! Finally he'd stumbled upon something a little more solid and legally binding...

"Righto, done our initial safety check" announced the dwarf. Head to toe in metal plates exept for the rectangle lifted up over his eyes. "Would you like to show us where it's all been happening?"

Judge Surdwold entered his own stateroom cautiously. The dwarves had touched nothing, but measured with strange instruments, written down notes and 'hmm'-ed and 'aha'-ed patiently. Their leader stepped forward, eyed his clipboard and saluted.

"Odin Anglegrinder, of Anglegrinder Extermination & Co." he grinned. "Soon have you back to normal, sir. If you could just indicate what has been happening and where, etc."

"Um, mostly plates and ornaments, the suit of armour came down two nights ago." Surdwold waved his arms vaguely. "Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, that sort of thing. Can you do anything?"

"Leave it to us." Anglegrinder answered. He turned to a grey bearded colleague "Ulfin, a simple level IX I think, can you draw up the required?"
The dwarf identified as Ulfin drew a stick of chalk from his belt and - straight onto the polished oak floor - began to draw what was blatantly a magic circle. The others moved tables, chairs and (with a look of disdain) the suit of armour to allow the chalk to be drawn.

"I didn't think dw - er, you people do magic." said the Judge as he and Anglegrinder watched the chalk lines being drawn.
Anglegrinder gave him a severe look. "We 'people' don't do magic, your Judgeness. What you see here we are un-doing magic." Ulfin, consulting from a large, ironbound book, began to add mystic runes. Not simple angular dwarf runes, but twisty eye-watering mystic ones.

"But certainly, although you understand, I didn't think dwarves, as a people, even believe in magic." the Judge tugged at his collar and watched the walls.
"We don't." Anglegrinder answered. Surdwold blinked as some other dwarf was lighting coloured candles.

"But, then" he stammered, pointing. "Why all this?"
Anglegrinder sighed and tucked his pencil behind his ear. "Mister Surdwold, we are exterminating spirits of an otherworldly nature, we are not exterminating dwarfs. The chalk and the candles are really only for their benefit. They are the ones who believe in it, not us. Leave the metaphysical quandries of theodynamics to us and we'll soon have this building ghostie free. Now if you'd care to join me in your drawing room we can discuss terms of payment..."

When they looked there cupboard was bare...

Bronze alarm bells clanged along the stone hallways, armoured dwarves ran hither and thither; the ancestral hold was in uproar. Voices shouted orders and the tramp of booted feet filled the air. It was from deep down in the bowels of the hold the alarm had sprung; a few dwarves had gone down into the storehalls and found them almost bare. The King of the hold was alerted instantly and the age old warning system dragged sleeping guards and barracked soldiers into sudden action.

The King stood in the centre of the Great Hall amid the chaos, bellowing orders and organising the many people involved. The longbeards rolled their eyes and went about their business; it was not their day to die. But the Royal Hearthguard had formed in slightly breathless ranks, hammers in hand, and the clan's Deepguard, clad in traditional solid armour were forming up behind them. Among them rangers and crossbowmen ran, gathering amunition, axes, bags; barrels and crates.

Finally the throng was gathered and primed for combat. King Thunderforge tightened a gauntlet strap with his teeth whilst orderlies brought his bearskin cloak, finally he looked up and grinned at his warriors. Durak Strongbrew, Sergeant of the Guard, raised his hammer. "All present and correct Sir!"

Amongst the clamour of arming an unexpected figure had appeared; the extremely bearded Loremaster Ethgrim Axehandle leaned on his axe and watched the proceedings with a disapproving look. The King turned and addressed the ancient in the accustomed manner.

"What now?" Modsogni asked bluntly. Ethgrim glared from beneath avian eyebrows.

"What would your grandfather say if he saw you now?! All this nonsense for such a trivial matter? All these diverse alarms? Any good king under a mountain would employ people to do this for him; in fact in the World's Edge they even get humans to do it." King Thunderforge took a deep breath and hauled his belt up angrily. He knew the longbeard had never shown him the true respect due to a dwarf king, and it nagged at his temper that customs and traditions had to be bent because their hold was in such isolation and danger.

"Neverthless!" barked the King. "I am to provide for the clans such as I see fit. In the World's Edge Mountains there aren't so many things as can see your thoughts. If our actions today had been planned out there would be ambushes out there waiting for us; if we don't know what we're doing neither can the enemy! Now if you don't mind - I've got a job to do."

Checking the axe strapped to his back the King trudged to the Great Stair which decended down in to shadow and up into darkness. He struck a heroic pose.
"Clans of the Thunder Forge! Are you with me?" the assembled throng roared. "Let's go farming!"

All fun and games until someone gets hurt...

It was Deep Seam night, an annual celebration of the mining clans of the Thunder Forge. It celebrated the time, many years past, that an unsuspecting miner struck a goblin lair; during the grobkul that ensued many small greenskins found their way into the hold causing mayhem and chaos. Every year this was marked by a raucious drinking binge accompanied by jokes and pranks usually unheard of by the sour-faced and downturned clans.

The King and his mates sat round the head table in the Axeman's Arms, the sound of singing and shouting filled the air, the fug of alcohol added a warmth and fuzziness to everything. Durak Strongbrew was chugging from a tankard whilst the crowd beat their hands on the table in rythmn. "Choke! Choke! Choke! Choke!"
Durak made bubbling noises and slammed the mug down, slopping ale all over the ale already coating the table. He shoved the tankard across to Ethgrim, the white bearded loremaster cackled horribly. He raised it, pouring a trickle into an another mug so the group could see the inside.
"Rune of plenty!" he explained.
"Ruddy good stuff mind" replied Durak with a belch.

Modsogni stood carefully, his helmet revolving round his head so the horns stuck out at an outlandish angle. "Right, I gotta go open Zhufbar's Gate" and marched unsteadily towards the latrines. The assembled throng rubbed hands and began conspiring about how to prank their king. This time the Chief Engineer slapped his hand down.
"I got this 'un." he drawled in a voice deeper than the depths. He picked up the tankard of plenty and drew a lump of clay from a pocket. This he carefully squished to the bottom of mug. The dwarves looked on bemused as he went on to sprinkle a fine black powder into the ale within and carefully, very carefully, placed it back on the table where the king had been seated. A look of quiet satisfaction settled on his face as he folded his hairy tattooed arms and sat back.
The burble started again and Govan struck up a crude little song called 'Hergle's Hearthcrack' as Modsogni pushed his way back through the crowds.
"...and wind it blows there still!" he finished loudly. "Ah! Finish this one then little brother!"
Modsogni laughed loudly, gripping the handle. "If Durak can't find the bottom of a jar then it's time someone showed him the way!" and knocked back the tankard.
An observant onlooker might have noticed the King's cheeks go red as the sulphurous mixture of blackpowder added seven shades of hell to his throat, but the king valiantly chugged on. The motley crew banged fists and started the chant "Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!"
The King gasped, held the tankard out in front of him, and with a cry of "HAH!" slammed the mug down on the surface of the table.
With a flash of white light and an almighty BANG! the tankard rocketed up and embedded itself in the wutroth ceiling beam above them. A ring of bearded faces stared up at it whilst Surt, the Chief Engineer laughed deep, slow laughs.

Modsogni was the first to recover and glared through the smoke at Surt. "What sourcery is this?!" he demanded. Surt leaned forwards, conspiratorially.
"Shhh! It's thunderclay. Contraband susbstance, don't tell th' Ironbreakers. Made some up specially!"
The King stared ahead for a moment, and then back up to the ceiling. "D'you realise what you could DO with that stuff?!"
A gleam sparkled from his eyes. "We could blow ore straight out of the rockface... You could send fifty tons of iron from the Sump Hall to Topside in seconds... I could rain down rocks from the mountainside against the trolls!!"

Chief Engineer Surt grinned wryly, "Aye, 'cept you'd have to be up before the council in the morning. Contraband substances? that's a Cogging and no mistake." he wound up the clockwork on his pipe, and clamped it in his mouth firmly.
"Six hundred forty six years ago it was," began Ethgrim, in the bleating tones of one about to embark on a long tale of ancient days.
"Yes, yes we all know!" interupted the King. "King Burlap got shot in the arse whilst surveying the battlefield from up on 'is shield. The Engineer Mhangle was trying out a new blackpowder weapon and shot him in the arse. That's why we don't use handguns. Makes sense to me if yer don't mind. I'm the king around here, I'm the one who has to stand on the shield. It's MY arse on the line when we go into battle."

Like loose nails to a magnet the dwarven faces returned upwards to the entankarded roof-beam.
"But I'm sure the technology has advanced a little..." muttered Govan.
"And I remember Mhangle had a funny eye..." added Ethgrim.
"If precautions were taken..." put in Durak.

"If Burlap can make a law to ban something I can ruddy well make a law to un-ban something." announced the King. "D*mn fool got shot in the arse for gold's sakes! What does that tell you about 'im?!"
Loremaster Ethgrim snorted into his beer "I'll make a note of it. Wish your line wouldn't keep changin' things, that's the fourth law since Dargle's time I've had to re-strike. Just make sure it stays this time!"

"Capital!" the King grinned. His finger drew a mushroom cloud in the ale suds on the table as he leaned in. "Testing starts tomorrow. Tomorrow after I've woken up. And had some fresh air. But there must be precautions mind!"
Engineer Surt waved his pipe in the air while he swilled more ale. "No no no! Not having elfin safety in my workshops! Things'll be done to good dwarf standards, like I've always had." he plonked his mug down on the table and planted his pipe back in his mouth. The dwarves watched as the mug, which had balanced momentarily on the edge of the table, fell to the floor.
"Govan," the King turned to his brother the Runesmith. "how soon can you knock up a pair of chainmail trousers? With the Master Rune of not getting shot in the arse on 'em. Size seventeen, extra short, with bootcuts and plated on the knees..."