In the year 1052, they arrived at the site of their future mountain fortress, hungry, tired, cold, and with a wagon full of dogs and rum. The rum was quickly drunk, but the dogs stayed with the dwarves as they carved out their home. The dogs… they multiplied. Soon they outnumbered the dwarves many times over. As a visitor in a passing caravan or as a new migrant, you’ll find that their home is the safest in all the lands, being guarded by endless hordes of vicious wardogs.
If you spent any time around them, however, you’d find them a bit peculiar. They wore leather, lots of it. They made fine crafts of stone and bone… lots of bone. And their larders were always well stocked with meat that tastes unlike most meals that you’d find anywhere else. At that point, a thought would strike you and you’d excuse yourself, edging your way out the dining room then running for the exit and your trading wagons, eager to flee, past the kitchen doorway, through which you’d see lots of adorable little puppies milling about a large slab, covered with blood and with a cleaving knife laid across it, a steady stream of bones and hides being borne out towards the workshops.
They really do love their dogs at Inktin.
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