Now That Everything’s Gone Downhill..

Finally, the gang’s all together again. Except for Hew who’s, you know, presumed dead. I say presumed because you should never count a dwarf as dead unless you see someone walk away unscathed with that Dwarf’s favorite weapon. And the favorite weapon of most dwarves is their head. Not because they’re particularly deadly thinkers or anything, but because they have extraordinarily thick craniums and can use them to make peanut butter. Out of granite.

In fact, the hardness of a dwarf’s head is something of a measure of that dwarf’s social standing or, more accurately, potential for menace. And since dwarven heads are officially labeled as weapons under dwarvish law, wearing a hood constitutes the carrying of a concealed weapon. It is also the dwarvish-culture equivalent of walking around with one hand in your inside coat pocket. It says to others, “Look out, I’m one mean dwarf and you do not want me to whip this hood off and get all fore-heady on you.”

In short, if you see a band of hooded dwarves walking about, keep your distance. They’re probably on their way to some sort of dwarven turf war where they’ll dance around and pretend to fight while singing about some other dwarf’s sister.