The path led me to an enormous hall. The chamber is illuminated much like Skyrock, but here the glow is a beautiful shade of green—it almost distracts me from the corpses on the floor. Moldy bones lie scattered at the entrance; the place reeks of solitude and sorrow. I don't need to search for enemies; they found these people first.
I gave them a proper burial. I couldn't leave those brave dwarves there for another minute. Upon them, I carved the runes Lilith taught me, so their slumber would never be interrupted. Their cemetery was located behind the town hall; they used to say that when one of them died, the grief was so great that everyone, from the poorest soul to the mayor, had to mourn. I say "they used to say," but the reality is that we used to say it; our fathers repeated it as a way of not forgetting, to know that there were once dwarves who cared for something other than food. Everything here looks as if they might return at any moment. At least fifty thousand dwarves must have lived in this place. The light is dim, but I don't need much; I manage well enough this way. In the center of the city—which takes me four hours to reach—lies the carcass of a dead beast. Perhaps the one that killed them.
The body is six meters long, grayish now, though it might have been green when it was alive. It has been dead for decades; its flesh doesn't reek even though it has turned black, and bones poke out along its skeleton. However, that isn't what interests me. The dragon's scales are almost intact. This is a massive find.
Many years ago, a neighbor of ours returned with a strange light in his eyes. He asked for a drink, and a large one at that. By the time he finished his fifth beer, he had everyone intrigued. He was a shy fellow, rarely interacting outside of making purchases or shedding tears over a painful lost battle. On that occasion, after much pestering, he showed us: a small rhombus hidden between his fingers that shimmered in the light of one of the few fires burning in the tavern. I only saw a reflection from afar. When he left to sell it to the merchant guilds, we never heard from him again. We thought he had prospered, earned much gold, and refused to return—that he was living in a city like Jade. No one wanted to know or ask the truth. But here, there are thousands of those scales. I imagine they aren't as powerful or resistant as those of a larger dragon, but they must be incredibly tough. If I am to face a giant kinsman of this beast, I must go prepared.
That day, I skinned as many scales as I could. As I tore them away, their grayish-green hue turned to a matte gray. I searched for a forge in the city and found one: "Hard-Arm & Son." Its forge and anvil are nothing like what I had or might ever have again. Wood to start the fire and top-tier coal awaited me in their storehouses. I don't entirely know how to treat these scales; they shouldn't be forged, as there's no point in damaging their structural hardness by making them malleable. But an idea begins to take shape in my head.
With the forge heated to the melting point of steel, I began to reheat my armor pieces. They had a blacksmith's hammer there, distinct from the crude weapon that works perfectly for crushing skulls but has no elegant purpose for metalwork. Calmly, I heated the pieces of my armor. Once softened, I began to set the dragon scales, one by one, into the glowing, softened metal, integrating them as much as possible. A coat of dragon scales... the process is agonizingly slow, but I must fit everything within two hours. I heat my hammer, and without erasing its runes, I simply add a rune of firmness and, as a last-minute thought, place a coating on its head. Those scales look impressive; my armor will be magnificent.
While I wait for my gear to cool, I contemplate my body once more. "Red" is the only word that comes to mind. I believe the diet of that cursed mushroom affects skin tone. It doesn't bother me, for I know it means I am one of them—those who have no money, who cling to what they have, who fight just to keep their jobs. I saw a house with a natural spring and I long to take a shower, but it's far from the forge and my weapons. If this beast wasn't the only one, I'll have trouble.
The footsteps are unsteady, as if advancing without deciding where to go. But they are heading my way, and there are many. I hear them in their clamor; they want me to leave. No living dwarf is supposed to be here, but if they are, perhaps they had gone out to fight and are returning tired only to find an intruder. That is very bad; I'd better apologize. Peering around the corner, I can see them nearly two hundred meters away. Some inhabitants of Esmeralda did survive, but they are no longer dwarves.
The closest one is a deformed thing. Its body is of normal height, but it has no beard; tufts of hair sprout all over its face. Its eyes are uneven, its gait heavy, and it wields a broken hammer. Beside it is a female dwarf—I think—judging by a dull braid in her filth-colored hair. They stumble as they approach. I shout at them, first as a greeting, then as an explanation, and finally as a warning. But none of them stop. They keep advancing, surrounding the smithy, cutting off my exit.
I rush inside. Though solid, my armor is still scorching hot, but I cannot waste time. It burns! I feel every piece of metal adhering to my skin. It's still too soon to wear it! But I cannot dally. (I wanted dragon scales, didn't I? Idiot!) My hammer is more bearable. My magic cannot be healing me all the time; I must rely on my willpower and ignore the blisters the metal is raising. That, and the permanent burns. I step out when they are only twenty meters away. I climb onto the roof as best I can and shout at them again—to let me go, that no one must know they live here, that no one will hurt them. But I receive no answer. Fearfully, they approach the house but do not enter; they just stay there, threatening me with their garbage tools. Five, ten minutes pass. Suddenly, from their rags, they begin to pull out pieces of rat, mole, and things I don't recognize. Everything is green—not from the stones, but from Morgana's corruption. I vomit at the sight.
With the taste of bile in my mouth, I watch the spectacle. They all went out to hunt. How would they survive without trade? I imagine they were many dwarves who entered illegally, who sought food when hunger overcame common sense. They began eating contaminated things, and when the corruption became widespread among the animals they hunted, they kept doing it. From here, I can see their bodies; many are holding their own entrails in their hands but don't even notice. They are so corrupted inside. They are "Gully Dwarves," as they called those born poisoned by mercury or arsenic. They were the walking dead, their tumors preventing them from leading a life worthy of the name. Behind them, I can see the dwarves who didn't make it; most crawl behind the group. It's likely that once they finish eating what they brought, they eat those who are no longer breathing. There is only one thing left to do... and I don't want to do it.
As my hammer swings from one side to the other, my reinforced shield flings bodies everywhere. Every time I activate a magic, the scales shift to the color of that magic, increasing its power. My mace passes through them as if there were no bodies, no families, no empty minds that once inhabited their city until they ceased to be the dwarves who lived there. Since they were isolated, no one called for help. I imagine them all trying to make excuses and head for the door, to flee... flee where? No one expected or wanted them; no one gave them aid. What could they do if those behind the gates would kill them on sight? I try to eliminate only those in my way; I only want to get out of there. But when I finally reach the other end of the city, my path is plagued with death—of my people, of innocents who lived without living, who ate and died while others slowly followed in their footsteps. How long before the tumors finished them? Moreover, how old are they?
I manage to scavenge some stale bread from a house. they don't follow me, so I prepare to finish what I came here to do. Esmeralda connects to the deepest mines. But just as I am about to leave, I hear them crying. They are all sitting in front of their dead. Despite it being something I had to do (they attacked me the whole way), it moves me to see them weep. But then they begin to eat each other, for no reason. "They were full," I repeat to myself; they had eaten corrupt garbage, they died for that food. Why won't they let them rest? Even though I could leave, I have one more thing to do. I sing the song through sobs—the composition of the people of Esmeralda—as I take care of them. Afterward, I wash. There was grain and food in the houses; they could have farmed. Some escaped, but I hope they do not reproduce. It is painful because their life was just that: pain. Their deformities hurt; they were rotten inside. None pleaded; all advanced against me because that is what they had to do. I wasn't their enemy; I was food. As I begin to lay the bodies behind the town hall, I hum some lullabies and funeral dirges while burying them. It's the best I can think of—that, and my promise to avenge them against whoever harmed them so.