Dwarven Desire in the Depths—A group of dwarves is mining miles below the surface, and the isolation causes sexual tensions to run high.
The hand-forged and gilded dwarven pickaxe is forced into the rock with all of the might the squat dwarf can manage, the point driven into the solid rock; then the dwarf flexes and pulls the split rock out of the way.
The weight of 4 miles of rock is hanging above his head. The sweltering heat was controlled by pumping fluid down into the tunnel and then pumping it back to the surface, where radiators let the heat dissipate—a miracle of dwarven technology. The fluid, once at the surface, is pumped back down to let it repeat the cycle over and over and over.
Or it should, except the system for the sprayer for this section had clogged and jammed.
A wide-mustached dwarf twists his wrench, and the water begins to flow again.
“Spout 15 is functional, Master Gibblings,” the wide-mustached dwarf says to the imposing, knee-length-bearded dwarf. He watches the muscles of the older dwarf’s back ripple as he swings his pickaxe once again.
“Good, technician Thorabean,” Master Gibblings says to the junior mechanic dwarf. He rips his pickaxe from the stone, pulling more free. He judges that this vein might widen out again in a few feet.
Thorabean continues watching the older dwarf’s muscles ripple, his body showing dozens of tattoos for valor and integrity. Thorbean feels naked with his single family crest around his belly button. He can’t help but stand and watch the dwarf swing the pickaxe again with perfect precision into a crack in the rock. Then, without any wasted motion, he pulls it free.
“Is there something else I can do for you, technician?” The master dwarf asks, wiping sweat from his face. The spout rapidly cooled the tunnel.
“No, Master Gibblings,” he responds, turning around and packing his tools. Closing the lid of his toolbox, he grabs the handle and walks away.
“Tight ass on that technician,” the master dwarf states, his head rested on the handle of his pickaxe. He rubs his scarred chin before turning around and slamming the pick into the rock.
Thorabean sits 2 miles under the surface, the great lanterns lighting the old mess hall. created and lost and reclaimed more times than dwarven history will admit, it stands as a bastion of dwarven determination. But not their culinary excellence.
Today’s spread is lichen stew. again. without any bread. Thorabean begins to eat it grudgingly.
From across the hall there is a riot of laughter. Thorabean looks up from his bland, tasteless soup to the source of the noise. “Master Gibblings, I should have known.”
The powerful dwarf is locked in a thumb wrestling contest with another master miner. Master Gibblings lifts his opponent off the ground and over his head to slam the hapless dwarf onto the stone table with a crash. But the thumb war continues.
“He is always like this, endlessly optimistic,” the scrawny apprentice clerical dwarf next to him says. “Here we are fighting an endless war, and he is posturing for dominance.”
“But at least he keeps the morale up. Sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of the goal when you’re so far into the embrace of the darkness.” Thorabean says his own spirits rise to see the tough old dwarf thrashing the young master in such a silly game.
Master Gibblings turns the opposing dwarf upside down, setting the man on his head. The opponent uses his arm to stabilize himself as he fiercely refuses to yield.
The master dwarf steadfastly refuses to lose until his eye catches the technician staring only at him. He falters and finds his thumb pressed down. The crowd cheers “1 2 3 4 5,” and like that, his fight was over.
“You bested me, young master. The next shipment of beer we get, a barrel is for you.” Master Gibblings pats the dwarf on the back and wipes the rock dust off his clothes. He walks between the tables, aiming directly for Thorabean.
“Master Gibblings, how can I help you?” The technician quips, looking down at the green slime that is his dinner, he longs for the fat loaves of bread served in the upper halls.
“You made me lose that competition. How dare you stare at me like that?” The dwarf glares at the technician, who is still valiantly trying to figure out if this is graybeard fungus or pumpernickel fungus soup tonight.
“You will look at me when I talk to you, Technician.” The master dwarf states loudly, others around the room turning to look.
Thorabean looks up from the soup. “I apologize, Master Gibblings,” he says, rigid respect in every syllable.
“That’s better. Tomorrow I am headed into a section of the mine that has been sealed for a generation. You are to accompany me.” Master Gibblings puts a hand on the technician’s shoulder and squeezes gently.
“Yes, Master Gibblings,” he says in response. The warmth from the man’s hands lingered on his rough, oily skin.
“Bring your tools and an overnight bag,” the master dwarf says, patting the technician’s shoulder.
Thorabean feels a flutter in his stomach.
The next morning at the daily meeting, Master Gibblings interrupts the normal assignment process: “Thorabean is coming with me; we will return tomorrow.” The old man points at him and then at the tunnel.
The heavy tools and the backpack make maneuvering difficult, while the master dwarf carries only his pickaxe and a large canteen across his shoulder. The mining light woven into his hair looks especially fancy today.
The tunnels are filled with large and complex but mostly to Thorabean pretty stalagmites and stalactites from the water becoming so mineralized as it flows down. Each level they descend involves a half hour of fiddling, swearing, smashing on the pumps, and the sprayer before they begin to function correctly.
Then a half hour of waiting for it to drain to the level below. The Master watches with an approving smile.
Two thousand feet down in an unused mineshaft, one of the sections of tunnels behind them makes a horrible sound as the rock splinters from the weight and settles down, trapping them. The pumps stop functioning, and the water level slowly starts to rise.
Thorabean’s heart races. “Do you know of an alternative path to get back?” he asks, doing his best to keep the dwarven courage and valor in his words.
Master Gibblings smiles, “Yes, of course.” They walk further down the passage till they find a secondary access shaft. “Here you go, get the water flowing before we roast alive or drown,” the old miner says. Watching him work again, he pays close attention to Thorabean’s fingers.
Soon the water is draining, and the spray cools the temperature dramatically. “Great job, technician.” The smile on the hearty dwarf’s face makes his heart flutter faster than the cave-in did.
They continue down the path until they enter a bright ruby geode. The cooling system in this part of the mine is oversized, and the whole area has a dwarven touch of comfort. Stone chairs and beds, a small stove, a grindstone, and a small bathtub filled with fresh, cold, cooling water sit in the corner of the room. “Ahh, the ruby node,” the rugged master miner says, setting down his pickaxe.
Thorabean’s eyes grow wide watching the master set it down. “Master, are you well?” he asks before looking around at the extreme opulence of the room.
The master sits in a chair carved from the very ruby the walls are made out of. “Oh yes, Technician Thorabean, I am very well. But I would like a bath to wash off the accumulated salts before I am stuck to the floor like one of the stalagmites.” He laughs.
Technician Thorabean’s eyes grow wide at the statement. “Master Gibblings, that is very forward of you.”
The master laughs and begins stripping his clothes, leaving them in a pile near the tub. “Forward or not, you don’t need to look unless you’re interested.” The dwarf stands in the water before kneeling down, the water turning instantly black. He reaches for his canteen and its hidden pockets and pulls out a bar of sweet-smelling soap and begins washing his body.
Thorabean sneaks a peek behind himself at the magnificent dwarf, who has even more tattoos of valor than he thought, the layers of rock dust and sweat having covered older faded ones. He loses count after 30 and several clan tattoos from where he has been bonded in the past.
“Can you wash my back, technician, or is that too intimate for you?” The master tries to reach his own back, but the muscles get in the way. “No good dwarf refuses to wash the back of another; after all, it’s in our holy text.”
The technician with heart aflutter approaches the dwarf, takes the bar of soap, and begins to wash his back.
