Dwarves, a race of miners, brewers, and warriors. Masters of the forge who, in their mountain strongholds, hammer out weapons day after day. Subterranean cities where the only sounds are the clanging of anvils, the clinking of beer mugs, and the battle cries of the dwarven militia. They are divided into all sorts of clans, houses, and families. Clans ruled by individual lords, houses by patrons, and families by elders.
At least, that's how it was until the great economic collapse six centuries ago. That economic turmoil significantly impacted the prices of ore, dwarven craftwork, and pretty much everything else. This caused major changes among the dwarves; there was no longer such a high demand for their swords, armor, or machines, so hordes of the underground folk needed to find a new occupation. And what job suits stubborn, dumb, and crude beings best? Administration.
And so, the dwarves, who for centuries had dug, hammered, and fought, discovered their true calling was… paperwork. Their natural stubbornness, which made them excellent warriors and craftsmen, proved indispensable for doggedly adhering to regulations, and their propensity for drinking beer was perfectly suited for enduring sleepless nights spent rewriting reports in triplicate.
Their underground fortresses, once echoing with the sounds of battle and forges, were now filled with the thud of stamps, the squeak of quills, and the endless muttering of clerks sifting through tons of parchment. 'Permit for carrying edged weapons in the city zone, form 7-B, sub-section delta, Appendix Three… No, no, citizen, this seal is smudged, please return with the proper document.'
Dwarven bureaucracy became legendary, or rather infamous, throughout the known world. It was slow, inflexible, and absolutely terrifying in its effectiveness at paralyzing any undertaking. A near-perfect bureaucratic system for most kingdoms. And it was into this very machine that our heroes would soon have to venture.
Meanwhile, Grumgh and Tamira trudged through the thick, humid forest that separated Larnwick Creek from the main roads leading to Landon's Corner. Their journey was neither fast nor pleasant.
Grumgh's plan of "reducing food costs through foraging" had proven rather miserable in practice. Although the orc could recite the botanical names of dozens of plants from memory, he couldn't tell edible berries from the not-particularly-edible kind. After a brief episode that would forever be seared into their memories, Tamira had firmly forbidden him from gathering anything that wasn't plain grass.
Grumgh led the way, pushing aside dense undergrowth with his massive shoulders. His velvet jacket was now torn and stained with plant sap, and his wire-frame spectacles kept snagging on branches, forcing him to stop repeatedly and adjust them with the dignity of an offended professor.
"According to my calculations," he announced, stopping suddenly, "we should have already passed the hill the locals call the 'Sleeping Giant.' Its absence suggests that either our pace is 17.3% slower than projected, or my mental map of this region, based on Voloth's 'Imperial Geography,' is flawed."
Tamira, barely breathing a few steps behind him, leaned on her knees with her hands. Her lute in its case felt like a sack of stones on her back.
"Your map can be flawed all it wants," she panted, "but I'm burdened with hunger. I can feel those eighteen percent odds of fatal poisoning in my guts, and it's not a pleasant sensation."
"That is merely psychosomatic," stated Grumgh. "The body reacts with anxiety to the unknown."
Instead of answering, Tamira only let out a muffled groan. Her dream of an artistic career in the big city had faded, replaced by an urgent need to eat anything that didn't resemble wet moss.