"Function over aesthetics. I liked it."
A massive gate of black iron loomed at the center. A thin layer of rust oxidized around the heavy hinges—a testament to its age, not a sign of structural weakness.
I stood before the towering ironwork. Minuscule. An outsider.
I rapped my knuckles against the cold metal.
THUD… THUD…
The sound was dense and heavy, echoing deep within, as if I had just knocked against the very belly of the mountain.
Silence.
Then, the abrasive grind of heavy chains groaned from behind the barricade. A small viewing slit slid open roughly five meters off the ground.
"Who knocks upon the gates of Khazad?" The voice was remarkably grating, sounding like boulders grinding against one another.
I tilted my head up. No pleading, no bowing.
"I am looking for Fergaer," I stated flatly.
A beat of silence. The eyes behind the iron slit narrowed, scrutinizing me from head to toe. Calculating my worth.
Slowly, the heavy gates groaned open. A wave of blistering heat washed over my face, carrying the thick scent of molten metal, burning charcoal, and heavy sweat.
I stepped inside. A world of logic and mechanics welcomed me. The dwarven village.
This place knew nothing of aesthetics. There were no flowers, no frivolous decorative carvings. Every structure was a manifestation of brutal efficiency, forged from black stone and wrought iron.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound struck my eardrums the moment we arrived. Hammers beating against incandescent metal. It was the heartbeat of this place. Constant. Monotonous. Yet, there was a mathematical regularity to it that strangely soothed my nerves. There were no surprises here. Only cause and effect. Strike and shape.
We stopped before a stone house slightly larger than the rest. Its open door belched out a wave of blistering heat that reeked of sulfur.
A visibly older dwarf stepped out. His white beard swept against the dusty stone floor, but his posture remained rigid. His narrowed eyes were sharp as a freshly whetted dagger, piercing me as though trying to pry open my skull.
Fergaer.
I didn't waste time on social pleasantries.
"I'm looking for a weapon," I stated plainly, my voice flat against the distant clamor of the forges. "Miss Elyra sends her regards."
The shift occurred in a microsecond. Those hardened, aged eyes widened by a fraction. The rigid muscles of his face softened—an emotional fracture in his mask of stone.