The workroom was carved out of the living mountain, finely crafted, but in a very utilitarian style. There was no effort to add any decoration or flourish, no embellishments, scrollwork or curves. What the room did have going for it was perfectly straight lines and perfect, sharp corners. It was the kind of room that math and geometry enthusiasts want to be buried in. The room was about 6 meters square, and about 4 high, a single air shaft disappeared into nothing behind thick iron bars.

An impressive collection of tools all had their place lining the wall directly across from the door, each in it's place on racks, holders or pegs. A magic lamp that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room, throwing shadows that seemed to be painted on the flat gray of the walls behind them. When a tool was removed you could still see a pale ghostly shape left behind, the color of the original stone framed in the black buildup from years of hard crafting.

In the center of the room stood a large single workbench, it commanded the room in a way that made it look like the bench was always there, the room just grew around it. The bench was covered in oil, gears, glass and a collection of spidery fixtures designed to hold and examine delicate objects with the care found only in masters of the craft.

The wall to the left was a dominated by a single iron shelf covered floor to ceiling with bits and pieces only a few masters of craft would be able to name, and even fewer would know what to do with them. A ladder was casually leaning against the shelf, the base of the ladder heavy and reinforced, so the climber could reach the back of the shelf without worrying about it slipping.

The right hand wall was covered with blueprints and drawings, the subjects of the designs ranged from simply brutal to impossibly complex. Below the blueprints was series of stands, holding anchient scrolls containing knowledge that could literally build empires.

There was only one exit to the room, a simple, but masterfully built stone door leading to a sparse bedroom.

The walls of the bedroom were identical to that of the workroom, simple but flawless. It was furnished with a bed carved from original stone, some bookshelves filled with books on craftwork, and an end table with an oil lamp. A half door on the right side led into a bathroom, the fixtures in the bathroom carved from the original rock like the bed. Opposite the bathroom door was another solid stone door but this one was firmly barred on the outside.

If someone were to walk into the workroom they would expect to see a dwarven master behind the desk, years of age heavy on his shoulders, a leather apron with fine tools in carefully crafted pockets and loops. His broad frame would fill in the room, strong arms bending the bones of nature to his will. On his head would be a band of leather reinforced with copper, thin articulating arms holding magnifying lenses and precise magical lights to allow him to focus on fine work that most would think would be beyond his strong hands.

But as the person looked in, the expectations faded away. Standing shorter, and much thinner, was a goblin. Standing on a small stool to reach across the worktable, and a simple work apron draped around it's neck, a smaller halo of tools fastened to a headband almost completely obscuring her finer features, a goblin named goburi toiled away in a dwarven workshop.

Goblins as a rule, worshipped gold, the elusive glimmer in the depths dictating their paths through life. Originally they had slinked and stolen their way through the depths and the alleys, but time and wisdom found they could be more successful if they put a nameplate over a door. Their tactics never really changed, but they crafted paperwork into a shield and bureaucracy into a dagger. The change in process allowed them to keep stealing, but instead of death they received praise for powering the economy.

Goblins were often found at the unrestricted levels of dwarven strongholds, managing the finances and logistics of the trade flowing in and out of the well-guarded operations. Where they weren't found was anywhere near the workshops.

The dwarves knew when the hired the goblins that the goblins would be skimming off the top, but even with them taking a large cut the craftsdwarf would still walk away with more then they would earn otherwise. That being said, a dwarf knew enough to never trust a goblin with their valuable secrets. With those secrets a goblin could settle down like a king.

The Dwarves never trusted goblins, except when profits were being made. So when a young goblin had asked the dwarves to teach her their secrets of crafting, they told her she would have to remain locked up with those secrets for the rest of her life. The Dwarves never expected her to agree. That was 50 years ago

The goblin coughed behind the workbench, a shallow and rattling breath followed. Goburi was dying.

A wealthy goblin, invigorated by the flows of gold and the favor of the Great Glimmer could live for two hundred years. Goburi never felt the calling of the Great Glimmer, she had never earned a copper. Even as a child of 12, she was more interested in the wondrous investments being sold than the gold it brought in.

Goburi's parents had worried, not about her, but about the financial loss that would hit their books when it was made public they couldn't even instruct their own child in bookkeeping. That wasn't the case, Goburi was exceptionally talented, she knew the bookkeeping better than most children. She just got too bored when it came to calculating endless columns, and the second her parents left her to the books she would just dash off to examine all the crates of goods.

When her parents learned the truth, that Goburi had no interest in money, they kicked her out. No goblin would ever forsake balancing the books. It was obvious to Goburi's parents that she had leased her soul to the shadow of the beggar, they could not afford for that deep red liability to trend their balance towards "shudder" insolvency.

Alone at 12, no home, no money and no desire to gain money... Goburi followed her destiny. With hope based in desperation she approached one of the master craftsman as he left the trade house her parents owned. She asked him if she could become his apprentice.

At first he thought she was joking, a goblin wanting to apprentice to a dwarf? Then, as he patched her story together through sobs and pleas, he found a warm spot in his heart he didn't think he had. He brought her case before the dwarven constable, and they handed down their ruling, while she would never be a slave, Goburi could never be free if she learned the secrets of the dwarves. Goburi didn't hesitate to agree and found herself locked away for life, her spreadsheets replaced with blueprints, her pen replaced with a screwdriver.

Goburi learned fast, she had a head for numbers and math. Her small hands precise in the work, the hours of hauling crates and gold giving a stregnth that could match any 12 year old dwarf.

She learned to craft steam engines, armor, weapons and small clockwork automata. Smelting, hammering, grinding and hot riveting. Nothing was hidden from her tenacious curiousity, earning both respect and resentment from the dwarves.

After 50 years she was nearing the end of her apprenticeship, normally a dwarf would go on for another 150 years making their own name in their craft. Unfortunately for a goblin that never once been blessed by the Great Glimmer, her time was up.

Goburi never earned a single grain of gold and now that she was dying that meant one thing, she could not even pay the toll to cross into the afterlife. Goblins worshipped gold, gold watched over them, and Goburi had never earned or lost a mote, finding herself to be something of a heretic.

Like most decisions in life it had always seemed to be the nobler cause at the time, but with the darkness closing in, she realized how terrified she was. Even if she had died in debt, the great elusive glimmer in the depths would have put her soul in a new body, still carrying her debt and some vague memories. Another chance to die in the black.

Goburi's last thoughts were dark specters of regret, chasing themselves in endless circles until she prayed for it to be done. She really had no idea where the souls of goblin heretics went, it had never really happened before.

There was no funeral. She was given the honor to be returned to the great forge, her body would fuel the great works of dwarves to come. A small ornate plaque was carved into her workroom. She would have smiled to see that small bit of craftsmanship to make its way into her world.