Dwarven fortresses throughout history have been known for two things: their great triumphs over the forces of nature, and the inevitable collapse that follows such triumphs like a donkey after migrants.

The merchants that travelled to and from the distant ventures of our brethren spoke more and more of the toil of one fortress, under the flag of the Massive Room. Its paradoxical name, Waterburned, was one of the simpler things about that place; what began as tales of a quiet hamlet under blood-red skies quickly took a dark turn.

Tales of horrible eldritch beasts and their battles with the settlement's valiant defenders (or aggressors, depending on the story and the drink) filled taverns across the dwarven lands. These stories had two constants: the incredible power that slept at the heart of the earth, and the all-too-deadly wrath of its protectors.

It would not take long for these rumours to reach the royal court, and for them to take root in the minds of the dwarven nobles. The power-that-sleeps-below would be seized, the conquest of the Infernal Halls resumed, and the glory of dwarvenkind reclaimed, by any means and at any cost.

Countless expeditions to the darkest realms of the world were launched. Few arrived, and fewer sent word back.

We were some of the lucky ones. As my feet sink into the soil of this filthy bog, I stare out into the fog in the distance, looking for a place to get out of the filthy air of this place. As I ready a pick and stare at the ground, I mutter a single sentence I learned from the merchants. Its meaning eludes me, but its function is clear.

"Gods damn it, Rotpar."