A 100 word Sci-fi explanation as to why Dwarves can never shave and why the beard truly is a matter of life and death.
A dwarf's fear of the ocean is not baseless. In the unknowable depths lurks an evil that will punish any dwarf arrogant enough to be on anything less than solid land, and unfortunate enough to die.
"The Blizzard be strong outside, lads; settle yehself in and breathe the steam; we'll pass the time with a story."
A summary of the Esgol Dwarves which make their home within Esgoloth, in Asydia
How does a culture measure time underground, without any sun? The dwarves have got it covered.
Hailing from a long line of brewers, Stout has given up the life of the beer-maker for the life of the Adventurer-Upon-Return
A miserable little pile of secrets? No, where did you get that idea? Join the scholar Matteus Carter as he unveils the secrets of an ancient dwarven poem.
Those of the bare chin, the clan of the wolverine, they who walked away from the mountain.
A royal heirloom passed down from the original dwarven deep-king Hjotar Zan Madroszal. Also known as the hammer of delayed oomph.
A dwarven masterwork shield, imbued with the power of wind.
What used to BEE the crown of an old dwarven king has now BEEn made a portable BEE-hive.
Sneaky bastards, the lot of them
"I knew Lwausf would be angry when we banished him, but I didn't see the whole undead-bearman-projectile thing coming. Looking back it was kind of inevitable. "
Prince Gorim, Lord of the Mounatian Hall at Silverspike
Troth Glenbeard was a dwarf with a mission. And that was destruction.
From there, things happened. And the Irondeeps got a Subterranean-Transport-System-That-Moves-Things-Around-Faster-Than-Equine-Means (aka, in modern-speak, a subway).
The swirling snow fell on the soldier's shield,
covering the symbol of Hrothen's Hope.
The swirling snow fell on the dwarf's black beard,
and melted into the darkness.
-opening poem of Hrothen's Curse, a dwarven tale
Rumors of the closed city are whispered on the mouths of the other races, however no one will ever find a dwarf that will say one word about it.
Six gruesome blades forged from dwarven blood in the pits of ancient bol-Pakash. Six knives the dwarves wish never existed.
In the dark underground realms where Dwarves dwell, the colourful heraldy of humans is of less value. Dwarven heraldry focuses more on the silhouette of the warrior, the shape of his shield, and in some cases, sound.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.