The dwarves make their homes within the very bones of the world. They are miners and craftsmen beyond compare, and while cordial enough in their dealings they show a polite disdain for all other races, whom they refer to as "the beardless." In battle the heavily armored dwarven warriors form themselves into disciplined formations capable of breaking even the fiercest of charges.
Next to the Elves, the Dwarves are the oldest of the known races. Their Lorekeepers and Lorewardens can trace the lineage of the great Dwarven Houses back to the days of the God War; when they stood with the Good dieties and drove the forces of Evil into their respective lands.
The Dwarves are also the most scientifically advanced species. Practicing a strange combination of rune magic and alchemical technology, the Dwarves constantly produce some of the highest-quality wargear in existence. The Great Houses are constantly plagued by requests from allied races for customized armor and equipment. The Dwarves grudgingly tend to honor such commissions, albeit at huge profits and long waiting times.
If left to their own devices, the Dwarves would rather just be left alone to tinker with their various inventions, spending days on end within their mountain workshops. Alas, their role has also become one of mentoring and protecting the younger Good races; not because they want to, but because if they didn't the world would simply go to hell.
The Hulestiathah Hills provide a natural defensive wall against the Goblins and Orcs to the east, and the Undead to the south. Multiple outposts scattered throughout the HIlls are constantly on the lookout for Evil intruders into allied lands. Beneath the Hulestiathah Hills, an extensive network of underground roads leads to Draktal Kar, the seat of the Dwarves' power.
Dratktal Kar is also frequently engaged in direct trade with the Humans of the northern Empire of the Steel Rose. For the most part, the Dwarves regard the Humans as an upstart lot, useful for providing raw materials, but with a "royal scepter suck up their arse."
The Hulestiathah Hills
Morta Kar is the embattled southern fortress-city of the Dwarves. For centuries, the Dark Elves of the Mal-Shadun Wastes have been embroiled in a war of pure hatred with the Dwarves. Morta Kar is regularly besieged by the Dark Elves as attempted punishment for allying with the Empire. Consequently, Morta Kar gets all the experimental war technology to field test, much to the dismay of the Dark Elves.
The constant badgering by the Dark Elves has lead to the Dwarven nickname "purple pansies," an epithet that only serves to enrage their enemies further. Regardless, if the Dwarves can't be left alone, they're at least happy testing out a new Steam Hammer against the skull of an enemy.
"Get ready, lads! They're comin' at us again!" Godrimir hefted his shield and hammer, dropped into a defensive stance...and turned to stone. Behind him, the rest of the Rock Lords underwent the bizarre transformation, becoming stalwart statues against the Dark Elf Charge. At the base of the slopes of Morta Kar, on the southern end of the Hulestiathah hills, the battle-worn Dwarven forces met the Dark Elf cavalry head on. The Cold Ones and their riders broke against the solidified Dwarven warriors. War beasts and masters spilled to the ground, struggling to rise. The Rock Lords transformed again, returning to their natural state. They quickly dispatched the fallen cavalry, though a few had broken free to regroup. Godrimir, weary from three days of the Dark Elf siege against the mountain city of Morta Kar, turned to peer behind him. A few Dwarven infantry units stood ready to repel any attacks that broke through. Other than the Rock Lords and infantry, Morta Kar was defenseless until the reinforcements from Draktal Kar arrived. Things looked grim. "Godrimir! It works! It works!" The Dwarven veteran turned toward the sound of a chugging alembic engine. "Bugger me," he rasped. Emerging from one of the great stone halls of the city was a monstrosity of metal, steam, and rune magic. A great cannon on squat legs of alchemically fused steel. Riding atop the thing, in a crude cockpit of levers and pedals was Gurney, the Battle Mechanist. "I hope you're right, lad." Godrimir turned back to view the massed army of the Dark Elves. The Cold One riders were gathering for another charge. Gurney brought his growling contraption to a halt alongside the Rock Lords. "Now, if I just increase the pressure in the aegis reactor...." "You do know how to use that thing, right?" Godrimir asked. "Of course! I built it." "Well, get it ready. They're makin' another charge." Godrimir pointed across the field. The walking cannon began to belch black smoke and shake. Godrimir could hear a sound like a massive ocean wave gathering from within the thing. The Dark Elves were racing closer. "Is it supposed to do that?" Godrimir asked. As the cannon began to squeal and bulge. Fissures of steam escaped from the rune-inscribed barrel. "Uh...I may have turned the reactor up too high...." The Dark Elves screamed out their war cries as they bore down on the Dwarves. "Again, lads!" The Rock Lords shifted once more. In Godrimir's muffled state, he felt the Cold Ones bounce off him like flies...then a massive BOOOM! All was silent. Shifting back, he found the smoking, wrecked bodies of the Dark Elves and their mounts scattered around them. The cavalry had been entirely wiped out. There was nothing left of Gurney's cannon but a scorched crater in the ground. Of Gurney himself, there was no sign. "Poor lad," Gordrimir mused sadly. One of his troops tapped his shoulder and pointed at the sky. He looked up. A smoking dark speck was rapidly descending...and screaming. It was Gurney! "Better get a healing potion," Godrimir said. "I predict a rough landing."
