Iron Hills

The inn came to halt in the early hours of the morning. Gone was the hustle and bustle of Dwarves working the kitchen, and the clear clank of mugs brought together. Every step Dalbran took seemed herculean, every croak of the wooden floorboard seemed to shatter against the walls of the hall, and shimmer onwards into the rooms. The Dwarf huddled down into the tunnels leading to the Dwarven dwelling beneath, and into the unfinished hall of carved stone. As he expected, his brothers were asleep, snoring and huffing loudly from their bedrooms. Just as planned. 
 

Where jewels drive the dark away, and night becomes as bright as day, an honest end from an honest start, for wealth is found inside the heart. 

It was a day like any other down in the mines of Járnfast. Afli was working deep in the east lodes, in one of the newer levels. It followed the iron vein further down, about eight hundred feet into the lower mountain. The tunnel he was working on had only been delved inwards for about two feet. There were no raises to the other level yet, and he barely had enough of a ledge to sit on and rest. This tunnel he was working on would lead to another ore deposit, of that Foreman Brumber was sure.

To the dear Duinn Drakenbane, son of Muninn, lord of Durin’s Folk,

  And to all who dwell in the shelter of his arm,