Weyrats
"Flesh woven by pestilent greed."
![[Image: xn0YWzd.png]](https://i.imgur.com/xn0YWzd.png)
"Flesh woven by pestilent greed."
Inasmuch the same as the races of men and elf in their ways of life created a sort of psychical tension within the ever-forming realm of the Sangreal, the dwarves were no exception here. A race of manlike things whose hardy ethics and familial bonds carved into the bones of the realm like so many termites - singing, breaking bread and sharing mead. It was not the happiness of the dwarves, for they were often quarrelsome things, it was neither the great works and mighty fortresses that caused a certain sticky envy to ooze between the veins of the earth beneath their feet. Nay, it was the bounteous feasts and ponderous golden trinkets that hung from neck and ear - it was the great glinting gemstones and ancient casks of wine that called out to the darkness beneath their feet with every devoured morsel. It was the opulent cities and great halls of their own mountain fortresses which gave rise to a new thing beneath the mountain. Where the dwarf sought wealth for their kin and kith, this new thing sought wealth for squander; it sought food and drink for debauchery, it sought clothing for mimicry and tools for pride. That draconic spirit of envy buried deep within the realm festered and infused itself with the least of those that scuttled and scurried in the dark halls of the mountain.
It is said that the great beast in some way tainted the very foodstuffs eaten by the dwarves; it was the emotion, carried through by the act of nourishment that fell scant scraps to the meagre rats and mice which lived alongside their dwarven host. They grew, in size and mind to grow into little more than a rival, a cruel caricature of dwarfenkind. It did not affect the dwarves, and thus they did not notice until groups of man-like rats, four and five feet in height began to arise as boogeymen in the larders and supplylines of the furthest mines. As rats, they multiplied - a youngling weyrat seeming to reach a state of combat-capable maturity in less than a year. In contrast to the slow and methodical methods of the dwarves, these ravenous and furred things were far better adapted to the deep dark. Some possessed furs of deep grey and mottled black, still others ranging from browns to whites - as likely varied as their loathsome precursors. Deep in the mines and anteways of the dwarves there grew a small civilization of these weyrats over some years, and feral though they are, they are capable of communication, thought and civilization on the level of the surface races. It is evident however that their society is merely a facade, with the wealthiest being solely the strong and the greedy. In the fairer cities of the surface world there are from time to time found weyrat merchants, where in places abandoned dwarven civilizations have been co-opted by their animalistic counterpart.
Their frames wiry but strong, their paws nimble enough to unfasten clasps and sift coin from dust - it was as if the tools of this realm were made for them. At least, that is what a rat would tend to think. Where once they had chewed indiscriminately, they began to sort. Where once they had nested in chaos, they began to arrange. They did not rediscover dwarven purpose—they replaced it with something altogether different. They learned value. The first caches were crude: piles of metal objects dragged into hidden corners, glittering without reason. But over time, patterns emerged. Tools were grouped by function. Weapons were stacked, then separated by condition. Trinkets—rings, chains, carved stones—were gathered not for their utility, but for the way they drew attention. A chipped gem might be placed prominently while sturdier iron lay buried beneath, as though the Weyrats understood instinctively that perception itself could be traded.
Deep within the old merchant quarter of the dwarves, they established their first true market. The great hall, once lined with orderly stalls and governed by strict guild laws, became a maze of crooked tables and hanging wares. Tunnels collapsed by time were reopened, not for passage, but to create secret routes and hidden storage. Nothing was wasted, and nothing was truly lost—only moved, concealed, and eventually, offered. For the Weyrats did not merely hoard. They dealt. Their raids upon the surface began as opportunistic ventures—night forays into farms, caravans, and unwatched storehouses. But soon they grew bolder. They learned the habits of traders, the timing of shipments, the weak points in dwarf-guarded lifts and sealed doors. Goods vanished without trace: bolts of cloth, casks of ale, crates of tools. Even coin itself, stamped with the marks of distant realms, found its way below.
And then, in a twist that baffled those above, some of those same goods began to reappear. Travelers who wandered too near certain fissures or forgotten mine entrances reported strange encounters: cloaked figures with twitching whiskers and bright, appraising eyes, offering wares in exchange for other goods. Their speech was halting but deliberate, laced with a peculiar sense of calculation. They haggled not with anger, but with a kind of playful cunning, inflating value where it suited them, dismissing worth where it did not. A farmer might lose a crate of tools in the night, only to find a Weyrat merchant weeks later offering those very tools—alongside others—for twice their worth, or in exchange for something entirely different. A dwarf might guard a shipment through treacherous tunnels, only to discover that the rarest items had vanished and were now being bartered deep below, traded back in altered forms or bundled with curiosities of dubious origin. The Weyrats thrived on this circulation. To them, ownership was fluid. Possession was temporary. What mattered was movement—of goods, of opportunity, of advantage.
Within their subterranean domain, a hierarchy emerged, though not one of kings or councils. The most successful traders, those who controlled the largest caches and the most intricate networks of tunnels, held sway. Alliances formed and dissolved with the exchange of goods. Debts were tracked with obsessive care, recorded in scratches along stone walls or in bundles of knotted cords. To owe was to be bound; to collect was to rise. Yet for all their cunning, the Weyrats remained creatures of instinct as much as intellect. Their markets were noisy, chaotic places, filled with chittering voices and the constant clatter of shifting wares. Disputes were settled quickly, often with tooth and claw, but rarely to the death. A dead trader could not repay a debt. The dwarves, when they returned to reclaim portions of their lost halls, found not emptiness but occupation. Their sealed vaults had been breached, their careful inventories scattered and reinterpreted. Attempts to drive the Weyrats out met with limited success. The creatures did not defend territory in the conventional sense—they abandoned sections under pressure, only to reappear elsewhere, their goods already relocated.
Some dwarves, pragmatic and weary of endless skirmishes, chose a different path. They traded. It was an uneasy arrangement. Deals struck in the dim light of reclaimed halls, with Weyrat merchants perched atop crates of stolen goods, offering items that had once belonged to the dwarves themselves. The terms were rarely fair, but they were effective. What could not be recovered by force might be regained through exchange—at a cost. In time, the underways became something neither dwarven nor wholly alien: a layered economy of loss and acquisition, where goods flowed in loops and ownership blurred into transaction. The Weyrats did not restore the mines, nor did they destroy them. They repurposed them into something restless and ever-shifting.
It is said that the great beast in some way tainted the very foodstuffs eaten by the dwarves; it was the emotion, carried through by the act of nourishment that fell scant scraps to the meagre rats and mice which lived alongside their dwarven host. They grew, in size and mind to grow into little more than a rival, a cruel caricature of dwarfenkind. It did not affect the dwarves, and thus they did not notice until groups of man-like rats, four and five feet in height began to arise as boogeymen in the larders and supplylines of the furthest mines. As rats, they multiplied - a youngling weyrat seeming to reach a state of combat-capable maturity in less than a year. In contrast to the slow and methodical methods of the dwarves, these ravenous and furred things were far better adapted to the deep dark. Some possessed furs of deep grey and mottled black, still others ranging from browns to whites - as likely varied as their loathsome precursors. Deep in the mines and anteways of the dwarves there grew a small civilization of these weyrats over some years, and feral though they are, they are capable of communication, thought and civilization on the level of the surface races. It is evident however that their society is merely a facade, with the wealthiest being solely the strong and the greedy. In the fairer cities of the surface world there are from time to time found weyrat merchants, where in places abandoned dwarven civilizations have been co-opted by their animalistic counterpart.
Their frames wiry but strong, their paws nimble enough to unfasten clasps and sift coin from dust - it was as if the tools of this realm were made for them. At least, that is what a rat would tend to think. Where once they had chewed indiscriminately, they began to sort. Where once they had nested in chaos, they began to arrange. They did not rediscover dwarven purpose—they replaced it with something altogether different. They learned value. The first caches were crude: piles of metal objects dragged into hidden corners, glittering without reason. But over time, patterns emerged. Tools were grouped by function. Weapons were stacked, then separated by condition. Trinkets—rings, chains, carved stones—were gathered not for their utility, but for the way they drew attention. A chipped gem might be placed prominently while sturdier iron lay buried beneath, as though the Weyrats understood instinctively that perception itself could be traded.
Deep within the old merchant quarter of the dwarves, they established their first true market. The great hall, once lined with orderly stalls and governed by strict guild laws, became a maze of crooked tables and hanging wares. Tunnels collapsed by time were reopened, not for passage, but to create secret routes and hidden storage. Nothing was wasted, and nothing was truly lost—only moved, concealed, and eventually, offered. For the Weyrats did not merely hoard. They dealt. Their raids upon the surface began as opportunistic ventures—night forays into farms, caravans, and unwatched storehouses. But soon they grew bolder. They learned the habits of traders, the timing of shipments, the weak points in dwarf-guarded lifts and sealed doors. Goods vanished without trace: bolts of cloth, casks of ale, crates of tools. Even coin itself, stamped with the marks of distant realms, found its way below.
And then, in a twist that baffled those above, some of those same goods began to reappear. Travelers who wandered too near certain fissures or forgotten mine entrances reported strange encounters: cloaked figures with twitching whiskers and bright, appraising eyes, offering wares in exchange for other goods. Their speech was halting but deliberate, laced with a peculiar sense of calculation. They haggled not with anger, but with a kind of playful cunning, inflating value where it suited them, dismissing worth where it did not. A farmer might lose a crate of tools in the night, only to find a Weyrat merchant weeks later offering those very tools—alongside others—for twice their worth, or in exchange for something entirely different. A dwarf might guard a shipment through treacherous tunnels, only to discover that the rarest items had vanished and were now being bartered deep below, traded back in altered forms or bundled with curiosities of dubious origin. The Weyrats thrived on this circulation. To them, ownership was fluid. Possession was temporary. What mattered was movement—of goods, of opportunity, of advantage.
Within their subterranean domain, a hierarchy emerged, though not one of kings or councils. The most successful traders, those who controlled the largest caches and the most intricate networks of tunnels, held sway. Alliances formed and dissolved with the exchange of goods. Debts were tracked with obsessive care, recorded in scratches along stone walls or in bundles of knotted cords. To owe was to be bound; to collect was to rise. Yet for all their cunning, the Weyrats remained creatures of instinct as much as intellect. Their markets were noisy, chaotic places, filled with chittering voices and the constant clatter of shifting wares. Disputes were settled quickly, often with tooth and claw, but rarely to the death. A dead trader could not repay a debt. The dwarves, when they returned to reclaim portions of their lost halls, found not emptiness but occupation. Their sealed vaults had been breached, their careful inventories scattered and reinterpreted. Attempts to drive the Weyrats out met with limited success. The creatures did not defend territory in the conventional sense—they abandoned sections under pressure, only to reappear elsewhere, their goods already relocated.
Some dwarves, pragmatic and weary of endless skirmishes, chose a different path. They traded. It was an uneasy arrangement. Deals struck in the dim light of reclaimed halls, with Weyrat merchants perched atop crates of stolen goods, offering items that had once belonged to the dwarves themselves. The terms were rarely fair, but they were effective. What could not be recovered by force might be regained through exchange—at a cost. In time, the underways became something neither dwarven nor wholly alien: a layered economy of loss and acquisition, where goods flowed in loops and ownership blurred into transaction. The Weyrats did not restore the mines, nor did they destroy them. They repurposed them into something restless and ever-shifting.