Still soldiering on into +Jim Magnusson 's Alphabet Dungeon...
A distant sound of hammers on metal echoes down the corridor. No light emanates from the ajar door at the end of the hall. Light cast into the room reveals forges and anvils, manned by accursed, zombie dwarven smiths. The forges are cold, the slack tubs long dry, the bellows cracked and wheezing. Yet the undead smiths still labor, pounding rusty bars with shivered hammers, going through the motions practiced in life.
|Hammering in the darkness|
Perhaps they attempted to forge a tool or weapon from a cursed metal, perhaps some greed has consumed them, pushing them to labor past death, or perhaps this is all their souls have ever known.
Mindless, eyeless, they push past an intruder to carry the iron in rusty tongs back to the dead coals.