"Over time, these seven lineages drifted apart, separated by distance and the different enemies they faced. Their ties weakened, yet one trait always remained the same: they were a stubborn, proud people who stood by their word. Dwarves are loyal in friendship as well as in enmity."
Mephisto observed the dwarves carefully, finally letting his gaze settle on Zoltan as he grinned.
"Once they make a friend, they never forget them for a lifetime. But once they hold a grudge, it can last generations. Igris is very fond of this trait of the dwarves—because he knows he can rely on them. That's why he gets along with dwarves so well. He once helped a group of dwarven refugees build homes… But that's a story for another time."
The dwarves whispered among themselves while Ciri looked at Zoltan. Thinking of Zoltan's adventures with Geralt, she realized how accurate this description was, and smiled warmly. Noticing this, Zoltan's ears turned red; he looked slightly embarrassed. Mephisto continued in a theatrical, storyteller's voice—he even secretly turned on background music to make the atmosphere more dramatic.
"As the years passed, Middle-earth began to descend into darkness. The shadow of Morgoth—the first Dark Lord—fell across the world. During this time, the dwarves mostly remained neutral, focusing on their mountains and their wealth. But Morgoth's armies spread so widely that eventually even the dwarves could no longer avoid the conflict. Even Khazad-dûm had to fight the creatures of darkness alongside the elves."
The panel showed the brutality and savagery of the war. It was far more violent than the wars of the Witcher world—especially Morgoth's imposing and terrifying form and the army of balrogs, which made everyone extremely tense. Ciri stared in shock; she had seen wars before, but the scale of destruction here was far beyond anything she knew. The narration continued:
"During this period, the dwarves and elves shared a relationship that balanced both friendship and rivalry. When dwarven craftsmanship merged with elven artistry, they created extraordinary works. Yet they never fully understood each other; elves thought dwarves were greedy, and dwarves believed elves were arrogant."
Taking a small pause, Mephisto sipped his tea and ate a piece of cake before speaking again.
"The people of Durin were stronger and far more numerous than the other dwarven clans. Khazad-dûm—later called 'Moria' by the elves—expanded for centuries. At first, it was just a handful of great halls and mines, but over time it spread miles deep and wide beneath the mountains.
The dwarves carved stone with such mastery that the ceilings appeared as high as the sky, and the pillars as thick as mountains. At the heart of this city stood Durin's Throne. From there, the dwarven kings ruled every hall beneath the mountains."
The dwarves stared at the images on the panel in awe. Some stood up, some were filled with envy, others with longing. Many of them were young—they had never seen the glory of the ancient dwarven cities. Yet the city before them stirred something deep within their spirits. They had lived among humans who often saw them as lesser beings; now, they felt overwhelmed by emotion. Mephisto continued:
"The source of Khazad-dûm's power was the mithril veins buried deep within the mountain.
This metal existed nowhere else in the world. Mithril was lightweight, yet stronger than steel. It shone like silver and was said never to tarnish. The elves treasured it greatly and traveled long distances to trade with the dwarves. Thanks to mithril, Khazad-dûm became the wealthiest city in all of Middle-earth."
The images on the panel continued flowing.
"The dwarves grew particularly close with the elves of Eregion. There lived an elven craftsman named Celebrimbor. Together, dwarves and elves created countless unmatched works—rings, weapons, jewels, and magical artifacts. It was a true age of peace and prosperity in Middle-earth."
The dwarves—especially those skilled in craftsmanship—looked mesmerized by these masterpieces. Zoltan whistled when he saw them; one axe in particular caught his attention. Suddenly, Mephisto's voice turned dark and dramatic, the background music shifting to something ominous.
"But as the saying goes… after an age of prosperity comes the inevitable fall."
The panel changed to show the army led by Sauron. It wasn't as grand as Morgoth's, but the sheer numbers were terrifying. One dwarf asked:
"What are these creatures? And why are there so many of them?"
Mephisto paused the panel. A different figure appeared on screen—green-skinned, sharp-toothed, clad in dark armor, wielding weapons, walking upright like a grotesque parody of a man. Mephisto spoke:
"Ah! Excellent question. This is likely an enemy you'll fight constantly in that world. They are called orcs. I won't go into how they were created—it's information that won't be useful to you. Orcs are more intelligent than ordinary monsters… though 'intelligent' here is a relative term, mind you.
Orcs are known for their barbarism and savagery. They are cannibals who eat living creatures raw. They love polluting, destroying, defiling everything they see. They attack anything beautiful. Their strength varies, but their most dangerous trait is their reproduction rate. Two orcs can have eight offspring in a single month, and the young grow extremely fast. And they can repeat this process many times—their biological and physiological structure allows it."
Mephisto looked at Ciri with a mischievous expression.
"Orc males, in particular, have a… special interest in the women of other races. So try not to get caught. It wouldn't end well."
Ciri shivered, while Zoltan slammed his fist on the table, frowning. With Geralt not here, he felt the need to step into a fatherly role.
"Ciri is far stronger than you think, Master Mephisto! And as long as I'm here—no creature! NoTHING—especially a male one!—can lay a finger on her while I'm alive!"
Ciri felt warmth in her chest as she looked at Zoltan, though she wasn't particularly worried. She had been trained by witchers themselves, and she had begun mastering her own power. She trusted her abilities. Mephisto chuckled before continuing.
"Orcs are divided into several types."
While the dwarves were stunned by the reproduction speed and Ciri frowned in thought, the panel showed a creature about 1.50–1.60 meters tall—thin, ugly, green skin, rotten yet sharp teeth.
"This is a common orc. Not very strong, but strong enough to kill an ordinary human… Though humans can be so cowardly that they usually run away the moment they see one."
The panel changed again. This time a larger, more muscular orc appeared, about 1.70–1.80 meters tall, less ugly but far more intimidating.
"Uruk-hai. These orcs are bred for war. They are strong enough to carry heavy weapons and armor with ease. They are sharp-witted, though they lack true strategic thinking. Still, they're dangerous. A single uruk-hai can kill three soldiers from your world—but would likely die in the process. They're the basic infantry of orc legions."
A new orc appeared on screen—more threatening, heavily muscled, terrifying in presence rather than ugliness. It carried a massive axe and wore heavy bone armor. Its height ranged from 1.80 to 2.20 meters, with extremely dense muscle mass.
"These are the Great Orcs. Far smarter than the previous types. Far stronger and far more agile. They're killing machines. One of these can slay ten heavily armored knights from your world. They have their own combat techniques. A mid-level Great Orc can severely injure—or even kill—a witcher in a one-on-one fight. The stronger ones can kill elite witchers. And their champions or warlords… are strong enough to kill the White Wolf—Geralt of Rivia—himself.
Now, this is a general power comparison. I use Geralt as a reference so you understand their level. To kill Geralt, it would take at least two or three Great Orc champions—and even then, Geralt's death isn't guaranteed.
Reaching this level requires long years of training. Their birth rate is lower than other orcs, but still fast enough to remain a threat."
The dwarves were stunned. Mephisto had given them something to compare themselves to. Even though there were certain unsettling aspects about Witchers, everyone knew they were the greatest close-combat fighters in their world, the most active and successful mercenaries alive—especially Geralt of Rivia, whose talent and strength were undisputed. Every dwarf here had crossed paths with a Witcher at least once, or had heard rumors about them.
Zoltan and Ciri—who were closer to Witchers than anyone in the room, and who had spent countless days alongside Geralt—stared in disbelief at the image of the High Orc. They were no strangers to monsters, yet this was the first time they had seen something like this: a creature that was both insanely fast-breeding and overwhelmingly strong. A true nightmare to deal with.
For a moment, Zoltan regretted bringing Ciri. He cursed his soft heart. He shouldn't have gone to say goodbye to Geralt!Even Kargan was shocked. He had gone on several contracts with Vesemir and knew the old Witcher's power well. Vesemir had even told him about Geralt. And yet… he wasn't afraid. As a man, no matter what came, he would reunite with his family.
When the screen shifted again, the dwarves gasped.
"There are still more types?!"
one of them blurted out.
Mephisto chuckled.
"Don't let orcs scare you. There are many things far more dangerous. But yes, most of the time, these are the ones you'll be fighting. Anyway! Let's move on, we're wasting time."
Four High Orcs appeared on the screen, each with a different skin tone.
"High Orcs have tribes of their own, though not many. Their skin color determines their strength. In order: green, red, white, and black. The one you saw earlier was the green kind—the lowest of the high-ranked. Above them come the red-skinned, though they live in desert regions so you're unlikely to meet many. In battle they go berserk—quite literally. They feel no pain, fight entirely on instinct, and their strength skyrockets. Their only purpose becomes killing. Some of their best warriors can even coat their weapons in flames."
The panel changed again to show a white-skinned High Orc.
"The white ones are also called Frost High Orcs. You'll encounter them the most. They live in snowy mountains and frozen lands—most active in the Northeast. They're about as strong as the red ones, but far more intelligent and cunning. Excellent ambushers, and their aura causes freezing effects. Their current chieftain is an anomaly—his aura can freeze a 500-meter radius."
Ciri frowned at a new word.
"What exactly is 'aura'?"
Mephisto smiled at her.
"A good question! To put it simply, aura is a force that strengthens your body and your weapon. It's similar to Chaos energy, but far gentler and easier to control. It comes from within—a manifestation of one's will and spirit. Don't worry, we'll teach you what you need to know. Whether you develop it or not is entirely up to you. Now, let's continue."
A black-skinned High Orc appeared on the screen—far from ugly, but terrifying in its charisma. Its build was lean but disciplined, like a knight wearing heavy armor. It held a sword and shield with surprising elegance and mastery.
Mephisto introduced it like a showman presenting a final act:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Before you stands the pinnacle of all orcs—the most dangerous of their kind. Like Witchers, these orcs were mutated through experiments. However, they are not sterile. They just breed slowly—three or four children in their entire lifetime. They're incredibly intelligent, fast learners. They've built an entire nation of their own, with structure and order. They're one of Sauron's greatest creations and his most favored commanders. These are the last orcs you ever want as enemies. Pragmatic, rational. They trade, teach, practice alchemy and magic. Truly the peak of their race. Their kingdoms lie in the west and southeast of the continent."
Mephisto fell silent then, refilled his tea, and began eating a slice of apple tart.The dwarves stared, stunned, at this species that began as mere monsters yet evolved into a cultured, organized people. Ciri drifted into thought; in her world she was a monster hunter, but the creatures in this world seemed far more dangerous—both in reproduction and intelligence. A serious threat.
Curiosity got the better of her.
"How many kinds of monsters exist in this world?"
Mephisto chuckled mischievously.
"Too many, my little rabbit~. The monsters of this world would eat your world's strongest beasts for breakfast. Still—don't worry. You'll be going to Arda, one of the safest and most livable continents. The central continent—also called Middle-earth. There are other continents as well; some are habitable, some are barren or dead. Some are ruled by evil races, some by good. And at the very top lies Urulóré—the continent of dragons. Ruled by the Dragon King."
The dwarves and Ciri were stunned. Zoltan sprang to his feet in shock.
"There are dragons in this world?! And they have an entire continent?!"
Mephisto shrugged.
"Yes. Dragons are the noblest and strongest race in Arda. Hundreds of dragons live there, though their powers vary. The noble ones are extremely powerful and can polymorph into different beings. The gold dragons are the noblest and their leaders."
Then he shot Ciri a mischievous grin.
"But the most special kind—the only ones equal to gold dragons in pure power—well… they look quite a lot like you, little rabbit. They're called obsidian dragons. Or black dragons. They can control Chaos directly, as naturally as breathing. And the strongest of them can travel between dimensions."
Ciri's eyes widened in shock. Mephisto chuckled again and leaned closer with a whispering tone.
"Perhaps you'll meet one someday. Maybe they can help you control what's inside you."
Ciri frowned.
"What do you mean by that?"
Mephisto shrugged with a playful smirk.
"Who knooooooows~? Anyway! Back to the topic—time is money."
The panel shifted again, returning to the history of the dwarves. For now, Ciri forced herself to focus on Mephisto's lecture. He continued:
"But this peace didn't last. When the Elves forged their rings—which is a very complicated topic, and frankly irrelevant for you at the moment—Sauron's hidden influence was revealed. Eregion fell soon after. The dwarves resisted Sauron's armies, but it wasn't enough. Khazad-dûm sealed its gates and retreated deep beneath the mountains. From that day onward, the dwarves never regained their old friendships with the outside world. Only the descendants of Durin continued the fight. After the final battle, Durin II—also known as Durin reborn, Durin IV—died a year later from wounds sustained in an ambush set by Sauron's servants."
Mephisto looked into the eyes of each listener in turn.
"Khazad-dûm remained strong… yet grew more and more isolated."
The images on the screen flowed onward. The music shifted.
"Still, the descendants of Durin reigned for a long time. But the pursuit of gold and wealth lit a fire of greed in their hearts."
The panel showed countless dwarves digging.
"The dwarves delved deeper and deeper into the mountain, seeking more mithril. In the lowest depths, beneath forgotten stone, they awakened something they should never have disturbed."
Then—suddenly—Mephisto secretly cranked the panel volume to maximum.
A monstrous roar exploded through the room.
Dwarves flinched violently. Some drew weapons. Some fell backward in shock.Ciri reacted instantly, instinctively drawing her sword.
Mephisto burst out laughing.
"HAHAHAHA! YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN YOUR FACES! HAHAHA!"
As the figure on the panel came into focus, everyone shot Mephisto a murderous glare.He ignored them completely and continued.
"What they awakened in those depths was a Balrog—an ancient terror that had slept beneath the shadows since the First Age. The Elves called it Durin's Bane.
Shrouded in fire and shadow, this primordial creature was one of the last remnants of Morgoth's armies. It had slumbered in the dark for thousands of years… until the dwarves disturbed it. And when they did, the halls of Khazad-dûm turned into a blazing hell.
The Balrog slew King Durin VI and his heir, Náin I."
The dwarves fell silent as the panel revealed Durin VI, his son Náin, and their army fighting to the death so their people could escape. The sight stirred a conflicted storm inside them—part awe, part heartbreak. Awe, because a dwarven king and prince choosing to face such a monster for their people lit a fire deep in every dwarf's chest. Nothing like this existed in the Witcher world's history; no dwarven leader there had ever embodied such honor. And that realization stirred a melancholic heaviness among them.
Mephisto continued:
"The dwarves were forced to abandon their mountain in terror.Khazad-dûm became known only as Moria—the Black Pit. A kingdom once praised as the greatest city in Middle-earth turned into nothing more than a hollow tomb where only echoes survived."
The dwarves watched the panel quietly, their eyes fixed on their kin from another world. They felt a deep sympathy. That Balrog had never driven the Witcher-world dwarves from their homes—but humans had. Humans, the true monsters of their world, had pushed them out of their mountains, exploited them, assimilated them, and tried to reduce them to slaves.
Ciri sighed, glancing at Zoltan's somber face. He stared at the screen silently, unsure what to feel.
Mephisto went on:
"Those who escaped scattered to different lands. Some traveled north to Erebor—the Lonely Mountain. Others settled in the Iron Hills or the Grey Mountains."
Panels showed weary dwarves migrating to distant regions, settling beneath mountains of various shapes and sizes. The dwarves watching didn't even blink.
"The surviving heirs of Durin swore they would reclaim Khazad-dûm one day.But generation after generation, that oath remained nothing more than a fading dream.
From that day on, dwarves no longer sought grandeur—only survival.Still, they preserved their craftsmanship. Every creation of their hands remained flawless… but the ancient brilliance was gone."
A collective sigh rose among the Witcher dwarves. This fate felt familiar, yet somehow, the dwarves of Arda seemed less wretched than they themselves were.
Mephisto continued, now with a somber melody beneath his voice:
"Dwarves were always strong—but now, they were utterly alone.After the fall of Khazad-dûm, they lived scattered for long years.Some found refuge in the Iron Hills; others in the Grey Mountains. No longer united, they struggled to survive as small, isolated colonies."
Suddenly his tone shifted. The music swelled—bold, proud, reminiscent of The Hobbit's score. Ciri and the dwarves all jolted slightly, startled by the sudden change.
"But the kings of Durin's line refused to let their honor fade.One of them was a dwarf named Thráin I."
The panel shifted to a majestic view of Erebor, with a resolute dwarf king standing proudly before it.
Mephisto spoke with growing excitement:
"Thráin sought to restore his ancestors' glory.After long journeys, he discovered a colossal mountain known as the Lonely Mountain.Within its heart lay ancient veins of ore—gold, gems, iron… more than anyone had ever seen."
The images continued to shift.
"Thráin settled there and named the mountain Erebor.Soon, it became the heart of a new dwarven kingdom."
The dwarves watching felt a deep swell of emotion at the lively halls inside the mountain. The dwarves of Arda were stubborn, proud, tireless—and compared to them, Witcher dwarves suddenly felt… small.
Mephisto continued, his tone rich with feeling:
"Thráin's descendants expanded Erebor, widened its mines, carved out vast halls, and forged golden thrones. In time, Erebor became the wealthiest place in all of Middle-earth."
The Witcher dwarves whistled at the sight of the unimaginable riches. Even Zoltan's jaw dropped.
The music softened.
"At the foot of the mountain, a human city arose—Dale. Dwarves traded with the humans; goods and weapons flowed between them. Years passed in peace, and Erebor's name spread—spoken with admiration… and envy."
The dwarves frowned. Their prejudice toward humans still burned strong. Yet Dale and the dwarves seemed to share deep respect. Even Ciri was surprised.
Mephisto pressed on, enthusiasm rising:
"Under King Thrór, the dwarven kingdom reached its peak. Thrór was a proud king—perhaps too proud.He loved gold and jewels so much that he would wander his halls alone for hours, simply watching them shine."
The dwarves stared at the mountain of gold—so vast it looked like a shimmering sea. Their mouths hung open. Even Ciri looked stunned. Life for these dwarves was so prosperous that some Witcher dwarves found themselves questioning the meaning of life.
Then the music shifted again—dark, warning, ominous.
"And this wealth… this brilliance… eventually invited a new disaster."
A massive figure appeared—larger than any Balrog. Crimson scales, vast wings, burning eyes. A dragon.
The dwarves recoiled. Ciri scowled.
"Far in the north lived a fearsome dragon: Smaug. Young—but unbelievably powerful. Clever too… at least for a creature forged in Morgoth's fires."
Mephisto scratched his head—realizing he'd perhaps praised Smaug a bit too much. But the dwarves didn't notice; their eyes were locked on the screen, dread creeping in.
He continued:
"When word of Erebor's riches spread, Smaug descended upon the mountain one fateful night.The dwarves and the people of Dale tried to resist—but the dragon was unstoppable. He burned the city, shattered the gates, and drove the dwarves out of their own halls."
Outrage erupted.
"THIS IS UNFAIR! WHY DO DWARVES ALWAYS SUFFER!?"
"THEY LOST THEIR HOME ONCE—WHY AGAIN!?"
"IS THE UNIVERSE AGAINST DWARVES!?"
"WHY MUST WE BE THE ONES TO LIVE IN MISERY!?"
The dwarves were furious—hurt. Ciri exhaled bitterly; this world was just as cruel as she'd expected. She cast a worried glance at Zoltan. She was relieved she'd chosen to follow him—this world was full of dangers, but she trusted her ability to protect him… or take him away if needed.
Mephisto clapped sharply.
"Calm yourselves! Let me finish!Dwarves of Arda are far more stubborn than you think."
They fell quiet, though the grief in their eyes remained.
Mephisto cleared his throat dramatically.
"Where was I? Ah—yes! Ahem!"
He slipped right back into his grand storyteller persona.
"Thrór, his son Thráin II, and his grandson Thorin managed to escape—but their kingdom was ash.Smaug claimed the mountain and made Erebor's treasures his own bed. Once more, dwarves became a wandering people—scattered across Middle-earth, living in poverty."
The panels showed dwarves living in miserable conditions. Reactions varied—some were unsurprised, others melancholic, others furious. Their immense wealth had been stolen by a giant lizard, and their kin were exiles once again.
Then the ring of hammer on iron echoed.
Mephisto's tone grew firm:
"But Thorin, like his forefathers, swore he would return one day."
A panel of Thorin working in a forge appeared, his gaze sharp, unyielding. The dwarves watching felt a surge of pride; dwarven stubbornness was something they deeply understood.
Then the music darkened again. Ciri groaned—the emotional whiplash was relentless.
Mephisto went on:
"As Thrór aged, he began to lose his mind. Pride consumed him. And so he marched to reclaim Moria."
The panel shifted—dwarves and orcs clashing in brutal combat. Steel on armor. Piles of corpses—orc and dwarf alike. The dwarves watching the screen were captivated; they had never seen such a massive dwarven host gathered for battle.
Mephisto spoke on:
"With the last army he could muster, Thrór launched a desperate campaign to restore dwarven glory. But their enemies foresaw their approach. Dwarves should have been the attackers—yet as they neared Moria, they found themselves forced into defense.
Still, the dwarves fought with fury under Thrór's command.Both sides were evenly matched…until an orc—one of the pale-skinned Frost Orcs sworn to extinguish Durin's line—charged at Thrór."
The panel showed the pale orc roaring as he swung his mace toward the dwarven king.