And thus, Tamedgolds died...
A 16-year old Mountainhome of 536 beards, triumphant over numerous forgotten beasts, titans, and other lesser threats, was assailed by a goblin ambush; their leader, a vicious humanoid turtle-demon. I shut the front gate and opened the protective shields around my fortified dragon-turret...and the demon, ignored the scorching flames and unleashed a cloud of dust; the dragon started to bleed, horribly, from every part of its body, quickly exsanginating and expiring. The dragon managed only to dash the demon against a wall with the force of its dying fire-breath, breaking the fiend's leg.
The military sallied forth against the crippled brute, hoping to slay it with bolt and blade before it could unleash its deadly dust again. The first crossbow salvo was blocked by its deftly-wielded shield, and the finest 80 soldiers, arrayed in shining steel, died in pools of their own blood as they charged against it, only crippling it's right arm. A hunter, previous shut outside the gate, slew it with a lucky bolt through its head. Of the original army, only a dozen remained.
But the horror was only beginning...as the final death announcements of the more robust soldiers echoed from the crier's lips, they were overshadowed by new ones, non-combatants, children and babies...the towns-dwarves, retrieving the bodies and effects of the honored slain, had unwittingly tracked the infected blood and dust back into the larder, the cemetary, the dining hall...the deaths began to increase, one a day, two a day, a dozen a day, and the surviving dwarves, overcome by grief, began to slip into madness and melancholy, wandering the engraved halls with expressionless faces, tracking the deadly contagion with them before expiring.
Within a year, the last dwarf, a woodcutter who had been felling trees in the deep cavern during the assault, had also fallen, and the halls of Tamedgolds were silent.