Dwarves were masters of the forge and the smithy. There was no doubt that the same mastery coursed through the veins of Fergon. Zeal and I watched curiously and silently as the stout dwarf flexed his muscles and pounded away on a rod of metal.
There was a certain glee to his face. He smiled underneath the flow of sweat from his head. His face was drenched, and his nose practically dripped, but the dwarf powered on.
He worked vigorously and showed no signs of slowing down. The dwarf reminded me of the first time I was allowed entry into a dwarven hold deep underneath a mountain. It was long ago and yet I could remember how the dwarves toiled and laughed.
Their cities, though underground and void of the sun, glimmered with riches and splendor. They adorned their homes with lavish decorations and painted their walls with bright colors that reflected even the faintest of light.
