Well hmm. Is it known where the migrating dwarves come from, then?
Nomads?
Yeah I wouldn't assume that just because there is no government representing dwarves, it must mean that there has been a complete genocide of the species.
You know what? Fine. What about this then?
You're a beacon. You're one of the last, neigh, you are
the last great dwarven civilization on the planet. Fleeing from a crumbling Mountainhome, you try to think back to the point where Armok decided to smite your kind.
You build a fortress, with a handful of supplies and dig your way deeper in the glories of old. The goblins, elves, and humans learn that the proud dwarves have not all died in freaky self-induced accidents or hilariously horrific war yet, and decided to investigate.
Some of them are cocky, thinking that the last dwarves here will act as zoo specimen, to provide a wonderful show in the final moments of the species' known presence in the entire world. To watch these moments would great entertainment. To cause those final moments is a great honor.
You have several unfortunate run-ins with hostiles before news spreads throughout the land of the last dwarven civilization, not helped by the scouts that investigated your group as it set out for its current home.
And these rumors grow, for the new extinction of an entire species of drunken, bloodthirsty midgets is enough to spark even the most dull of dinner conversations.
As the townspeople of the continents start to spread their rumors, the stragglers start to learn of your fortress. So, using what little money they have and what few supplies, due to living in constant hiding, embark to join their dwarven brethren. They arrive in a small number of waves, having found each other and used their collective knowledge to desperately survive while on the move. Groups of migrants approximately cut down to half of their living members due to disasters on the way to the fortress, such as the continued persecution of dwarves, diseases that grip the vitals with no hospital in sight, hunger, drowning, and predatory encounters. The stragglers that are not so lucky to find a group of migrants never reach the fortress in this life.
The caravans, however, are different.
The caravans ride to go throughout the continent, continuing business as usual, constantly on the move with care to outrun persecution. They collect from all over the land items that sparkle in their dwarven eyes, and even find the time in the wilderness to make their own goods. After all, they're traveling merchants. They need at least
some survival skills to stay alive on the road, and the trait of being one of the last dwarven peoples makes their craftsmanship fetch a high price on the market. After all, nobody wants to go to the
only other source of fine rock mugs in the world, since it is currently being attacked by goblins and all sorts of nasty beasts too dangerous for the average civilian.
When they hear of the last great fortress, they decide to routinely stop to visit their kin, out-speeding the goblins on foot and using their food stocks to distract war beasts. It is worth it in the end, for the commerce helps with the trade supplies and helps to ensure the dwarven beauty of carved soap is plentiful enough for the world. It helps the wallet, and it helps the soul. The merchants, for a majority of their time, are alone, with whatever dozen or so caged cats they were sold to keep them company. Seeing the Trade Depot, the merchants unload their goods, and find the dwarf in charge of commerce. With a spark of nostalgia, pleasantly lost in a time when the species held the strength of many great bunkers, bastions, and bars, the liaison smiles. He recites the common greeting of his trade.
"Greetings from the Mountainhome..."
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Topic: How can I make a world where I get no immigrants past the two hardcoded waves? (Read 869 times)