"I`m sorry, Gravis," Lord Byron said in his most sympathetic tone, which he knew from experience was not up to such a task, "but I regret to deliver the unpleasant news that you are being let go."

　　The dwarf in front of Lord Byron stood before the grand desk looking horribly out of place in the lavish office.

　　He`d look out of place anywhere, I imagine.

　　Not quite three feet tall, he had hair that came to his knees and a beard that brushed the floor. His eyebrows that grew on a pronounced ridge appeared like a pair of neglected hedges whose gardener died a century ago. These brows cast a brooding shadow on his face. Taken as a whole, Gravis Berling seemed little more than a hairy haystack with a pair of awful eyes.

　　But then, Lord Byron realized, they all do, don`t they?

　　"Let go, Sir?" Gravis asked, his voice the traditional deep dwarven groan of grinding rock.

　　Lord Byron didn`t know much about dwarfs despite having employed a tiny army of them. Like everyone he`d heard the legends, the jokes made at public houses, and witnessed the depictions at theaters where they were always villains. Dwarfs certainly looked the part. Small and hairy they scurried about in the dark, so at home in underground holes where no reasonable person would ever go. Rats were the same way, and as such induced fear and loathing. Those who weren`t revolted were often the type to see small furry things as cute, such as the lady who tries to care for a hurt squirrel or raccoon. But dwarfs were neither. Nor were they so simple a thing as inconvenient rodents. Dwarfs were dangerous, their size misleading. Lord Byron had once seen a dwarven miner crush a rock with a bare hand. Armed with a pickaxe his brethren could cut through stone as if it were high grass. Not only were they frighteningly strong, the whole race possessed the endurance of wolves, and the longevity of tortoises. Some stories claimed dwarfs lived as many as five centuries. Lord Byron knew there was truth to these tales as Gravis himself was easily over a hundred. The years showed in the gullies of his face, the deep valleys beneath those piercing eyes, and the brittle gray in all that hair. Some legends even put forth the notion that the diminutive race was not born of flesh, but crafted from stone. This was why their voices possessed that unpleasant grit, and why dwarfs had no feelings.

　　"What do you mean, let go?"

　　Lord Byron frowned, disappointed at the response. He`s pretending to be ignorant. I did hope it wouldn`t go this way. But then I also hoped the gout in my left toe would clear up.

　　"As of this moment," Lord Byron explained. "You are no longer an employee of the Delgos Port Authority Association."

　　The dwarf narrowed his eyes bristling those awful brows. They look like wooly bear caterpillars with their fur up. Do caterpillars do that? Raise their fur? Is that why they call them wooly bears? I doubt it.

　　"What`s that mean, Sir?" Gravis continued his charade of ignorance.

　　Lord Byron fought the urge to roll his eyes. It had been a long day most of it taken up dismissing more than two dozen dwarves. He could have had the foreman do it—regretted a bit now that he hadn`t—but he believed in doing things the proper way. Delgos was a republic, not a monarchy. A worker had the right to hear such news directly from his employer.

　　"It means you no longer work here, Gravis. You will receive your final recompense at the door as you leave."

　　The dwarf continued to stare as if he no longer understood the Rhunic language. They sometimes did that, feigned ignorance while muttering something in their native tongue.

　　"But&" Gravis looked around the office. "I don`t work here. I work at Drumindor, Sir."

　　Lord Byron knew the old engineer was going to be a problem. Gravis Berling had been with the Port Authority longer than anyone, longer even than Lord Byron. And then, of course, there was the whole family name issue. It was said, a certain Andvari Berling—an ancient dwarf—designed and oversaw the building of the fortress. Lord Byron wasn`t at all certain this was true, but it could be. Anything could be, couldn`t it? Gravis certainly thought it was and in the old engineer`s mind, Drumindor was his property—the ancient fortress, his inheritance. This was why Lord Byron asked that the old engineer to be the last brought to his office. He knew the meeting would be unnecessarily quarrelsome, and unpleasantly draining. He left it to the last so he could console himself afterward with a cup of tea and a long walk along the bay. Nothing helped clear the head like salt-sea air and a hot cup of salifan especially with a squeeze of fresh lemon. A cup of tea absolutely required fresh lemon, or what was the point?Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

　　Lord Byron didn`t like scenes or disturbances of any sort. He was a proper man who woke each morning at sunrise, always put on his left shoe before his right, and never went outside without hat and gloves. Order was the proper way of things, and routine the heart and soul of order. People like Gravis were&messy. Handling him was very much like clearing a clogged drain with a bare hand. And, if pressed on the matter, Lord Byron would admit to a certain personality flaw in regards to the opinion that he was apt to procrastinate on anything he expected to be disagreeable. Informing Gravis Berling, that after more than a century, he would no longer be allowed to care for his beloved Drumindor, was undoubtedly going to be disagreeable.

　　Lord Byron took an exasperated breath before stating that which he was certain Gravis was well aware of, but pointedly pretended to be oblivious to. "Drumindor is part of the Delgos Port Authority Association, Gravis. Why are you pretending to be so obtuse?"

　　Perhaps it was his use of the word obtuse that caused it, Lord Byron doubted the likes of Gravis had a clue what it meant, but whatever the reason the dwarf appeared to stop listening. Despite his small vocabulary, Gravis got the message. Perhaps it just took a bit to penetrate all that hair. "I`ve worked there all me life. I&" the dwarf stroked his beard, eyes shifting about in a vague panic.

　　Lord Byron had witnessed similar mannerisms in men walking to gallows. Gravis was terrified as he faced a very sudden end to what had been his whole life.

　　"I never had any children," Gravis confessed as if this was some great crime. He sounded suddenly short of breath. "I`m the last of the Berlings—the last. There`s no one left in me clan. I&I have no family save me wife, and she&" He hesitated as if a new and terrible thought walked uninvited through the threshold of his mind. "My Ena, she`s sick! The poor lass. She`s been sick for sometime, getting worse, too. How will I&I`m being asked now to pay rent on that shack of ours. If I lose it—I got nothing. There`s no place that will hire me, not now, not at my age." He looked at his hands as if they had betrayed him. "What`d I do wrong, Sir? I swear ta your god and mine that I`ll make it right. I will. I`ll do anything. Please. Please."

　　Lord Byron expected the question. They had all asked it, and he answered the same each time. "It`s not anything you did, Gravis. The Tur Del Fur Administration Triumvirate has determined that, given the recent lawless disturbances, continuing to allow your people to operate Drumindor is&well, it`s a threat to city security."

　　"A threat to security?" Gravis looked lost. "The Berlings—built Drumindor, Sir. This—this whole bay was uninhabitable before Andvari Berling arrived. I`ll tell you what`s a threat, Sir—not having a Berling take proper care of the old gal. That`s dangerous, that is. Letting me go—as you call it—that`s irresponsible, unsafe, and absolutely a threat to this city`s security."

　　"I am aware of your—"

　　"Mt. Druma used to erupt all the bleeding time spewing clouds of ash, and poison gas, and lava. This lovely little bay was a toxic death trap a`for we built Drumindor!"

　　"Yes, I fully understand—"

　　"And then there were the pirates, the Dacca and the Ba Ran. They used to ravish these coasts! If it weren`t for my people there`d be no Drumindor, no Tur Del Fur, no Port Authority Association or Administration Triumvirate! If it weren`t for my people, this office would be in a smoking crater of molten rock! All your lovely little shops, cafes, taprooms, and theaters wouldn`t exist."

　　"It`s not my decision, Gravis."

　　"You`re the president of the Port Authority Association!" The grind of gravel rose to the roar of a lion. "Ya just said Drumindor is part of the bloody DP-double-A."

　　"But I don`t run the country. This decision was made by the Triumvirate. If you have a problem, take it up with them." This was Lord Byron`s shield. He never thought of it that way until witnessing Gravis change from the wandering wizard of wheels and levers into something more frightening. Once more Lord Byron remembered how that miner`s bare hand crushed a rock like a clod of dirt, and for a moment he felt afraid. Gravis`s hands, old as they were, might still possess power beyond mortal man.

　　"Aye, you`re right. It`s not up to you. Not even up to the Holy Trio. Even if they wanted to, they can`t change the way men think." Gravis said in resignation as he looked at the polished floor and shook his head. "It`s the same as always, isn`t it? We thought the republic would be different. No kings, no emperors, no church, just free folk minding their own business. But it`s still the same. It`s always the same." He looked up sharply and fixed Lord Byron with an evil glare. "I should be the one firing you—all ah-ya. Drumindor is mine, and none of you deserve her. You can`t understand her language, and ya don`t even know how she works." He paused and thought a moment as if another idea—a horrible idea came knocking. "But I do."

　　Gravis Berling glared up at Lord Byron and a smile appeared under all that hair, an awful, terrible smile. "Aye that`s right, I know very well."

　　"You need to leave now, Gravis." Lord Byron said. "And remember if you try and return to Drumindor you will be arrested."

　　Gravis nodded and started toward the door then stopped, and without looking back said. "If I return to Drumindor, Sir, there won`t be anything left to arrest, nor anyone left to arrest me."

　　Lord Byron continued to stare at the empty doorway of his office those final words echoing. They continued to haunt him as did the coming of the full moon.