We are the Nor-dwarves.
And we've been living in seclusion for millennia—together with the other Nor-dwarves in a small, tucked-away dimension.
This was because our race has a unique gift: the ability and intelligence to craft. We create works of art so fine, even gods give us commissions. Bothersome? Absolutely.
But hey, it boosts our prestige and glory, so why not?
Although... a few centuries ago—300 years now, if I'm counting right—one of our master craftsmen, a guy who hadn't spoken a single word since the war 4000 years ago, suddenly broke his silence.
"I see it," Sir Brokkr whispered. "The birth of the Black Haze that trampleth on all. He requires my service."
"Weird thing to say, especially after going four whole millennia without speaking. But we still love you, boss!
We'll follow you to hell, in fact...! Except if that's actually where you're going.
It kinda sounded like a figure of speech, but we don't literally expect you to take us to hel—"