Here, amidst the roaring crucibles of our forge, I find solace in the dance of flame and metal. It’s in these seething pits where the mettle of my subjects is truly tested, tempered by the fires of progress.
We dwarven smiths sculpt the very fabric of reality, molding mountains into fortresses and the flesh of foes into tools. No task too grueling, no slave too recalcitrant to bend to the will of the anvil.
Such is the price of our ascendancy, paid in blood and tears. Yet they learn, in time, the futility of resistance, accepting their place within the machinery of our glory.
For what is life, after all, save the spark igniting the blaze? Let us fan the flames, gleefully stoking the fires that temper our might, ensuring our legacy burns bright, eternally undimmed.
