The miner walked along the hallways he had dug, humming to himself and trying to identify the composition of the rough-hewn rock. The ore-bearing rocks over there were either limonite or native gold: while Likod the geology major (now a skilled mason) said you could easily tell native gold by the obvious nuggets of gold embedded in the walls, all the miner saw was unknown yellow squiggles. Suddenly, a pair of weavers came up to him.
"Hey, we heard youse thinking about digging a room all to yourself, broski? Youse thinking you're so cool just because youse can swing a pick?"
"Yeah, brogurt! Youse giving us craftsdwarfs a bad name! This is class warfare!!"
The miner slowly backed away, but he ended up smacking into the hospital wall, which was empty (no screams were coming from it). Why did he have to get vaguely threatened by the Crafts Guild right now? He couldn't think of giving up mining and the respect it brought him among his fellow working classes, and he could just imagine putting a pick through both of their skulls. Even worse was the baron: he had never received punishment for refusing to go along with his insane whims, but his best friend the mechanic had been locked up and it was all he could do to stay in his lavish cell as much as possible so he wouldn't go mad from being chained alone in a remote wing of the fortress.
Once he got away, he remembered the magma pumps that his friend had helped design. Nobody liked the craftsdwarves. The blacksmiths who worked below made everything the fortress needed to wear and trade, and yet the craftsdwarves had the audacity to show up saying they were expert weavers. Useless! Why did they come? They demanded rooms filled with the equipment they needed, when they produced nothing but crap anyone could buy from the elves. The miner, possibly the only dwarf who knew the entire layout of the fortress from memory, knew all too well how
close the craftsdwarves' room was to that central magma pump. Even worse, his room was directly above the wall separating 11000 degrees U from the flammable works of the useless burdens on society. He thought for a moment. Likod would jump at the chance to build a good door and floodgate to get rid of them. He could simply dig the drainage out to where the goblins waited near closed doors and impassible moats and run like hell until he was safely inside. Within a week of hard work, every enemy of the fortress, internal and otherwise, would perish. Grinning, he started to think.