3 May 2012
They call us the mountain children, the Children of T'Zek. As if he, IT, cares for us. Where would we, the dwarves, be hidden from his fearful heights than his caves below? I am a dwarf, and this is my story.
It started with my mother's death (a commonly held misconception is that there are no female dwarves. In fact, they do exist but few humans can see the differences behind the beard). Her funeral, as is traditional, was held at the deepest cave in the mine.
As the procession of my small family walked through the eerie catacombs, I peered into the darkness. Several of the tombstones looked as if they had been forced into, and a slightly rank smell was in the air. I didn't point this out to anyone, however, because it was such a sad occasion.
I thought about my mother. Small, very kind and with the most magnificent beard you could have imagined. She had died in a mining accident, only 140 years old.
The ornate alabaster burial sarcophagus was laid down, and scented oils were being scattered over it to prevent her from rising from the dead, when it happened.
A huge crash came from a side passage, and eight pale, clammy-looking creatures skulked in, weapons at the ready.
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To be continued. Please like/comment and give me writing tips! ;)
The Children Of T'Zek-1 • Opuss № I