I was walking east through Idawoll when fog descended from the snow-clad peaks, covering the land like a soft blanket. In this part of Dvergheim, the fog was a frequent visitor, and the locals talked about it as if it were some kind of malevolent and unpredictable entity. "If Old Whiting joins you," a slightly pompous dwarf once told me, "you'd better lie low until he tires of your company."

Labored words, but sound advice: In the thick fog which now covered the alpine forest, I could barely see five yards in any direction, and all landmarks were lost from view. Hoping that 'Old Whiting' would depart before dark, I gathered some firewood and struck camp near a stand of giant Dvergheim pines. I was in no great hurry, and after all, this was not the best weather for locating concealed portals.

I was brought to Idawoll by information gleaned from an otherwise dull book, which I read in Sanguine's Cathedral Library, and which was called, in full: 'The Memoirs of Claude Lepeletier, Honorable Knight of the White Order, In Which He Humbly, And In The Light Of Morgaine, Imparts His Wisdom And Tells of His Brave Deeds, Of Which There Were Many.'

Though the book was old, the stiffness of its spine 'imparted' that few previous readers had gotten past the epic title of Lepeletier's memoirs. Towards the end of his spectacularly turgid book, however, old Sir Windbag wrote about something rather interesting, which happened while he was on a failed diplomatic mission to Dvergheim.

Since I had nothing better to do while the fog still lingered, I fished my journal out of the depths of my backpack, and re-read the relevant section, which I had copied - along with a map - from Lepeletier's memoirs:

Though the bold escapee didn't realize it, the dwarves he had encountered were obviously svartdvergir. Called Pale Dwarves, this race wages unrelenting war on the Dvergheim nation, driven onward by a sinister deity called Heimar, who is rumored to be one of the Usurper Gods. To finance their campaigns against Ymir's Tear, the Children of Heimar sell weapons and armor of superior quality to any race or nation which is unscrupulous enough to trade with them.

Being somewhat unscrupulous myself, I wanted to see what the legendary svartdvergir smiths could do with some raudstaal ingots I had in my backpack. Whether or not I told the Dvergheim authorities about the portal afterwards (assuming it was still intact), would depend on my reception among Heimar's people, as well as on how useful their services turned out to be.

--

As the fog finally lifted, I gathered my things and resumed my journey. Following Lepeletier's map, I walked southeast through the jagged and boulder-strewn landscape, scaring up the occasional grouse as I went. In accordance with Windbag's scribblings, a silver-hued lake glimmered in the distance as I began my descent towards the highland plains of eastern Idawoll.

Approaching the lake, I saw that the fields and low buildings of a gnomish village lay along its shore. Either Sir Windbag had been too swift in his retreating actions to notice it, or it had sprung up in the years following his passage. Either way, darkness was falling, and I decided to seek shelter among the gnomes, who were famous for their hospitality and for the quality of their cooking.

While crossing the fields surrounding the village, I saw movement on the roof of its only stone building, and gruffly barked orders indicated that my presence had been marked. Like many gnomish villages, this one was protected by a garrison maintained by nearby dwarven communities which, in turn, depended on the gnomes for agricultural produce.

I talked briefly with the businesslike and experienced-looking dwarven guards, who searched swiftly through my backpack (without remarking on the raudstaal ingots), while making sure that I wasn't on any wanted lists. Satisfied, they bid me good night and pointed me towards an inn on the opposite end of the village. As I walked towards it, the last rays of sunlight lingered on snowbound peaks of the western mountains, bathing them in honey and gold.

The houses of the gnomish village resembled friendly faces made of slightly sun-faded green driftwood. Big round windows peered out from under undulating thatched roofs, and most corners curved softly, giving the impression that the gnomes disliked square shapes and straight lines. Decorative flowers in pretty vases flanked most entrances, while some sort of communal flower bed dominated the center of the village. Near the big flowerbed, a sign indicated that an otherwise anonymous building housed a jeweler's shop. Gnome gemcutters are famous throughout Agon, and I resolved to pay the local master a visit in the morning.

The inn was small, smoke-filled and predictably cozy. The low-ceilinged main room contained a small bar, eight round tables, and a large, deep-set fireplace. Narrow stairs led up, presumably to the sleeping chambers, and wafting smells indicated a kitchen beyond a doorway on the western wall. I greeted the other visitors - dwarves and gnomes, all of them - and walked towards the bar, where a smiling, slightly chubby gnome awaited my custom. He wore a small farmer's cap and sensible woolen clothing in unassuming colors, and his skin was an almost goblin-like shade of green. In accordance with ancient and universal barkeep custom, he was absent-mindedly rubbing a glass with a slightly dirty rag.

"What can I help you with, big man? A room? Lamb stew? Ale perhaps?" The gnome spat his words out with exceptional speed and in a high-pitched, childlike tone of voice. Taken aback by the little fellow's strange manner of speech, I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

"All three sounds good," I answered, keeping a straight face with some difficulty.

"Right you are, big man. Commendable choice, if I may say so. Have a seat by the window. I'll tell the wife to cook you something extra nice." He poured me a large mug of dwarven ale, then turned around and walked into the kitchen. I sat down in a comfortable pinewood chair and relaxed. Outside, darkness had descended on the gnomish houses, while torches flickered along the stone walls of the dwarven garrison.

After sunrise the next morning, I paid a visit to the local gemcutter. I had brought two uncut rubies with me into Dvergheim, and now I hoped to save some money by cutting them here, instead of in Ymir's Tear. As it turned out, the gemcutter charged rather more than I'd expected, but the quality of his work was exceptional.

When a properly cut gemstone is attached to a staff, it adds power to the spells a wizard casts while wielding it. Different gemstones influence spells from different schools of magic, and in the case of rubies, ritual magic is enhanced. The amount of power a jewel imparts depends on the quality of its cutting, and the finished rubies cut by the gnome were among the finest I had ever laid eyes on. If the right buyer could be found, these near-perfect stones would be worth a lot of money.

As the midday sun warmed the village, I waved goodbye to a group of gnome children who had gathered on the green, presumably to gawk at the ridiculously long-limbed fellow. Leaving the rural haven behind, I travelled east along the shores of Silverlake.

--

I located the portal in a narrow valley, far from any road or settlement. When I finally found it, after hours of searching, an evening chill had settled, and Leen was rising above the mountains. In the dim, blue light of that farthest moon, I spotted a glimmer near the bank of a glacier-born river, which ran - green and strong with spring - through the heart of the valley.

Built of solid granite and simple in design, the portal was obviously made by dwarven hands. As moonlight reached its stone blocks, they gave off a soft blue shine, responding to Leen's touch. Within the structure, sheets of faint colour danced slowly, intermingling and swirling in seemingly random patterns. The portal was clearly active, and it seemed to have been deliberately concealed. Partially erased tracks indicated that bipedal creatures wearing dwarf-sized boots passed through it quite regularly.

Knowing that I was about to take a big chance, I raised my sword and cast both Hymn of Might and Hymn of Swiftness. For a limited time, these Spell Chanting incantations would improve - respectively - my fighting and my running away. After casting the spells, I put the broadsword back in its scabbard and entered the portal.

--

1) A gnomish gem cutter's tools
2) Svartdvergir officers wield large, angular axes
3) Svartdvergir hatchets are both work tools and weapons
4) A smith's hammer
5) Properly cut gems add enchamtments to staffs

As old Claude Lepeletier had surmised, the far end of the portal was somewhere within the borders of Dvergheim. I found myself on a mountain ledge overlooking a valley which rather resembled the one I had just left behind. Though Leen was dim that night, I saw that a river ran along the valley floor, flanked by stands of giant pine. Just below me, smoke rose from a fortified village which lay along the near bank of the river.

More pressingly, five svartdvergir stood around a campfire on the far end of the ledge, near a steep path leading down to the village. They appeared less than shocked to see me, though their conversation ceased abruptly when I appeared. Two of the guards approached with lowered weapons, while the others remained by the campfire, hands on their hilts.

"Greetings, traveller," the closest guard said, "in what capacity do you visit, and from where do you hail?" He spoke in a stilted manner, and though his words were friendly, his eyes were cold, and a faint sneer seemed to dance across his lips. Much skinnier than an ordinary dwarf, he had exceptionally pale skin, and jet black hair hung in a ponytail down his back. The corpse-hued skin of his face and hands was decorated with jagged tattoos, the intricate shapes of which were reflected in decorations on his plate mail armor.

"My name is Torgrim Eiriksson, I replied, "and I am a merchant from the distant land of NIflheim . I seek to trade gold for the smithcraft of the honorable Svartdverg clan, whose mastery of the forge is unrivalled on Agon."

A haughty smile spread across the face of the spokesdwarf. "Pretty words, human, but if you think the svartdvergir are honorable, you are a fool. We would just as soon slit your throat as talk to you, but since killing merchants is bad for business, we choose to let you live."

For a brief moment, I considered drawing my sword while the spell chants were still in effect. But I had come here to trade and to satisfy my curiosity, and even if I should win, a fight would achieve little. Instead of giving in to anger, therefore, I forced a smile: "I am grateful, and I trust that both parties will profit from my visit here."

"Hmf," the svartdvergir replied, while turning toward his subordinates by the campfire. He barked orders in a harsh language, and soon two of the soldiers were escorting me down the path to the village. Bearing the same tattoos as their commander, these fellows wore chainmail and carried twin hatchets which looked useful for both hammering and chopping. Despite being rather short-statured, they both managed several condescending glances in my general (upward) direction while we walked.

The walls surrounding the settlement were of medium height, and appeared to be exceptionally thick and well made. The sole entrance through them was guarded by more svartdvergir, all of whom were heavily armored and wielded hatchets or large battle-axes. Without saying a word, my escorts turned and walked back towards the portal. One of the tattooed dwarfoids by the gate gestured for me to follow him into the village proper, while the remaining guards watched disdainfully.

As we entered, I was further charmed by the presence of pillories and a large gallows to my right. Another batch of men-at-arms sat around a table to my left, staring at me with by-now-predictable disdain. Truly, these svartdvergir were in touch with their unsympathetic side, and not afraid to show it.

The houses of the village resembled those built by regular dwarves, but were even stouter and more unashamedly square-shaped. Sinister runes covered metal bands which ran along corners and edges, and the same symbols adorned banners which were used as decoration. Solid doors and minimal, metal-barred windows gave the impression that the locals regarded their homes as a final line of defense.

The local smithy stood at the far end of the village, in the shadow of a large and lifelike statue of a dragon. Part of the workshop had been moved outside, presumably so that the svartdvergir could trade with foreigners without having to allow anyone inside. Guttural chanting of some kind emerged from a tall but otherwise nondescript building which stood next to the smithy.

Nodding a greeting to the smith, I dug the ingots out of my backpack. Raudstaal is a rare and valuable metal, which is found only in small quantities, and which (like all magical metals) can only be given shape by the most talented of master smiths. Flame red in color, raudstaal has a strange affinity for fire, and armor made from it devours flame, reducing the damage caused to the wearer by, for instance, Fireball spells or a Fire Dragon's breath.

Apparently familiar with the magical metal, the svartdvergir didn't raise an eyebrow when I gave him the extremely valuable ingots. "What shall I make?" he simply asked.

"Make me a breastplate," I replied.

"Very well. That will cost you four thousand gold," the smith stated flatly, in a tone of voice which didn't encourage discussion. I just nodded and produced the money; I hadn't come to the svartdvergir expecting a bargain.

"Good. Now leave me to my work," the smith said, picking up the ingots as he turned towards his forge.

In addition to influencing its durability, the quality of a smith's work determines how much magic an item can be imbued with later. A breastplate made by an apprentice will hold only a single, feeble effect, while the work of a master can harness several powerful enchantments. As I waited for the svartdvergir to finish his work, I could only hope that he was making a breastplate of great magical capacity.

I had no reason to fear disappointment: Using my ingots, the smith crafted a raudstaal breastplate of astounding quality, and its durability was such that I still use it. As a matter of fact, it hangs on the wall next to me as I write this, ready to be worn should our clan keep come under unexpected attack. Unsympathetic swine they may be, but you can't fault the craftsmanship of the svartdvergir.