The music of the anvil echoes in the dark while the red glow of the furnace pulses. Within their smoking mountain, the dwarves are hard at work. Preparation. Preparation. Preparation. That is their word. News is always coming in, and they are always at work. War, they know, is inevitable. Swords, shields, armor, there will be a need.
An old dwarf, retired from the anvil, walks through the deep passages, marking his tally off in clay, the busy sound of iron and steel ringing and echoing all around him.
The preparations in the darkness will come out into the light.
Tale Told 