Dwarven beards are rich habitats for the enterprising critter.
You need a job, you need to find someone or something, or you need to lay low or need to sell something, you need a good fixer.
"I will give man his threescore and ten, and then give him more. Death himself will fall before me."
Patron deity of the Cult of Done, Othamm is always working to counter Mathom's influence.
Not a racially segregated hospital, but rather the Private Medical Complex
A story about a young Dwarf, the girl he met and the Goddess he insulted.
Pets mind you. Not exotic monster companions. No saddled dire-boars to be found here. No purple worm caravans.
A set of 30 Dwarven Treasures, for finding, or stealing.
...And 'lo, the days of Bennu drew to a close, and he built himself a pyre from which to be reborn in cleansing fire. But trickery snared his form, blackening radiant feathers to twilight...
Damn 'ol thing it tis. Itches like nuthin I e'er felt. Stupid bugs, your the Poosker ye fool. Help me get rid o' these damnable things.
I hate to tell you this but you have what we liked to call, "Puces Barbe Morts", or undead beard fleas. And the only way to be rid of them is to cut off your beard and then burn the hair.
No! Just kill me it's less painful that way.
Beard grooming is a life-long process divided between two schools of thought: harsh mineral treatments or more the natural approach. The popular naturalist approach requires beard-spiders that live off lice, fleas and other small insects.
A grab-bag of draconic goodness, ready to plug into a variety of settings from Steam-Punk to Modern to Fantasy.
All dwarves in the Ven mountains are familiar with this simple game. Though elaborate and colorful game board have been craft, the game is simple enough that you could out line a board in the dirt and play with four handfuls of stones.
Everyone had the nerve to look surprised when the androids starting forming their own society, and started telling humans to stick it, including calling them 'false men'.
The old hermit living outside the village is rumoured to have a small rusty tin spoon that seems disturbingly ordinary but in reality is a magic spoon. If someone puts the spoon in their mouth will taste food. It can be any type of food, grilled meats, cheese, strawberry, bread and so on. The real bonus is that the food is real and with enough tastings can fill a hungry belly.
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We were crossing a ridge when Corgan was lifted off the ground by something. "Shoot it! Shoot the tyrannosaur!" he screamed as blood streamed from the puncture wounds that had opened up in belly. I fired into the empty space above him to no effect. Then Corgan's ragged corpse dropped to the forest floor, and I was alone. Utterly alone. There was no dinosaur. There was nothing.