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There was once a dwarven metalsmith, who after becoming one of the few survivors of a disastrously inopportune goblin fortress raid, took it upon himself to fend off the rabid invaders. Having already given out his finished weaponry to the falling guards, the smith pieced together the only thing he could think of at the time.
Now, legend has it that this particular dwarf was actually very peaceful. Besides the mandatory military training when he reached adulthood, his life was focused on perfecting his craft. Stocky, bearded lives depended on it, you see. In fact, not once could this dwarf ever recall partaking in a fight, or bar brawl. Only long nights of hammering away at various metals filled the mind. So when this dwarf, so easily, picked up this weapon - so swiftly, gave it a few test swings, did he realize just how strong those toiling nights made him. The invading goblin army, of course, also came to realize this.
There is still talk of a far away dwarven encampment, with a single weather-worn hammer struck into the ground in front of the main entrance. Not one dwarf there knows the meaning of the word "goblin".