(I do love embellishments of the most basic and common occurences in the game, yes.)
Mayor kept demanding weapon racks. Easy enough, and useful for the fort, so the masons set to work, carving boulders into shape with skill and diligence. But each fulfilled order was followed by another. Weapon racks, make more weapon racks. Mistêm, they said, we have all the racks we need. We should really concentrate on, you know, making weapons. Ah yes yes you can do that right after you make some more weapon racks. Gotta be prepared, after all. And don't you dare sell any of those weapon racks, not even to the representatives of the Mountainhomes. The racks stay here. Racks racks racks.
While only a barely noticed inconvenience to the Overseer, apparently the other dwarfs had enough of Mistêm's gushing about weapon racks. "I can't listen to this anymore!" said Unib, locked himself in a workshop with metals and rocks and bones from the butchery, and created out of the limited resources of the outpost the most beautiful and expensive weapon rack dwarfkind had seen in the seven years since the world formed out of nothingness. Dragging it into the mayor's dining room, he growled, "There's yer bloody weapon rack, are you happy now?"
Mistêm had tears in his eyes. He could not believe his good fortune. "Yes," he whispered. "yes I am."
Ten levels above them, the elven traders screamed as the ambushing goblin lashers tore them to shreds, and not a single fuck was given.