The lives of Elves, you see, are frivilous and irresponsibly carefree to we mortal folk. We live by the light of day and sleep by the moon at night high in the sky. Our lives run from birth to death, and we know everything that fits neatly between the two. Mortals - so smart in their hustling and bustling, so sure that the path before them is the right path, the right path to death. For what do we live if not to die? Why are we born if not to hurry ourselves toward death? Therein lies the one question mortals never dare ask. The question that forces us to think, "What am I? Why am I? Where should I be? Who should I be?" We much prefer to attend these questions in the darkness of our own minds. Giving light to such important musings could prove detrimental to our mental state as Human Beings. Acknowledging that there is more to life than birth, education, occupation, retirementation, and, ultimately, death is to say that centuries of generations have gotten it wrong. That their working and slaving away in order to live - I hope you see the irony - was all for naught! For what, dear reader, is the point of living if we never find ourselves wondering about the universe? If we never find ourselves caught up in the rhythms and the rhymes of our fellow creations on this earth than we have not truly lived. We have existed. Oh, yes, we have become exceptionally professionalized at existing.

        But this chapter is not about we mortals. No, it is about a fairer race. A race of people so mysterious, so ellusive indeed that few mortals even acknowledge their existance. Even though when the world was still young, they lived among us. Causing mischief when they found it pleasing and helping when we were in need. A funny people, a fair-faced people, a people whose purpose existed wholly opposite from our own.

        Sit with me. And let me tell you of the Elves.

        Having you ever wondered about the earth? Have you ever sat and lost yourself in the wonderings of what lies beneath the ground we walk on? We live our lives on the surface, always on the surface. Rumblings and tumblings of stone and rock rarely pique our interests, rarely cause us to gasp in excitement, but I will tell you, as sure as the sun is hot on your face in the middle of summer, that we walk on the roof of other worlds, other worlds beneath our feet, worlds beneath our feet. These worlds are dark and lit by flame and candle flickerings. These worlds are filled with music and laughter and raucous happenings the like of which would curl your beard as sure as the damp humidity of the coastal cities. If you had a beard, of course.

        The lives of dwarves, you see, are made of rough and tumbles and nose-to-the-grindstones and mead. For we mortal folk, dwarves seem to be the race we have the least trouble believing in. Or, at least, beliving existed in another time, in another place, in another world made for our grandfathers and great great great grandfathers. We take heart in a people who work from birth to death. A people who devote their lives to digging deeper and collecting more, more, more. Dwarves are too busy with working - and drinking - to give time to wondering about the Why's of the Elves or the How-To's of the wee Brownies. They have a more driving purpose, a purpose that exists in the underbelly of the earth. The rocks sing for them as beautifully as the birds sing for us, and the dirt and the stone demand they listen, demand they answer the call.

        If you ever have the pleasure, dear reader, of meeting these most hardy of folk, beneath the rough and tumble you will find a kindness, a gentleness, that will warm your soul. Dwarves are as fierce in their loyalty as they are in their digging, and their honor surpasses very few. I wish for everyone the friendship of a dwarf, mead in the their bellies, and the stamina for both!

        Sit with me. And let me tell you of the Dwarves.