We all know the story, or at least, we think we do. "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs". It starts, as so many foundational tales do, with a number: seven.

It’s a curious number, isn't it? It echoes through folklore, often hinting at something complete, something significant. And it even pops up in unexpected, yet strangely fitting, places. Consider the digital depths of Dwarf Fortress, where a new expedition to "strike the earth!" and carve out a new destiny is, traditionally, composed of precisely seven stout-hearted dwarves. It’s almost as if, when dwarves venture out from the safety of their Mountainhomes into the great, perilous unknown, seven is the proper, time-honored, perhaps even magically potent count. Couldn't be any other way, could it? Tradition, after all.

So, let's ponder this: what if Snow White, whoever she truly was beneath the layers of fairy tale varnish and queenly malice, didn't just stumble upon seven conveniently placed, inexplicably jolly miners whistling while they worked? What if, in her desperate flight, she blundered into a genuine dwarven expedition? A hardened crew, far from home, with a deadly serious purpose etched on their grim faces. We know her story – the flight, the fear, the poisoned apple, the glass coffin. But what about them? What was their story before she arrived, and what did her sudden, unexpected appearance truly mean to them, these seven figures of stone and iron will? I have a theory, you see. A darker one, perhaps, than the lullabies suggest.

I like to think of their venture not as a quaint mining operation, but as a grim, high-stakes endeavor from the very beginning. That opening narration from Dwarf Fortress always sends a shiver down my spine: "You have arrived. After a journey from the Mountainhomes into the forbidding wilderness beyond, your harsh trek has finally ended". Let those words sink in. This isn't a leisurely stroll through sun-dappled woods. This is an ordeal. They are far, terrifyingly far, from any semblance of home, thrust into a hostile, alien territory. And they knew, before they even set out, that it would be monumentally tough. "There are almost no supplies left," it continues, a stark pronouncement of their precarious state, "but with stout labor comes sustenance". These aren't timid creatures, cowering from the shadows; they're facing the very real specter of starvation, and their only recourse is to dig, to fight the earth itself for their survival.

And then there's that chilling phrase, the one that truly captures their desperation: "You are expecting a supply caravan just before winter entombs you, but it is Spring now". Entombs. A dwarf, a creature of the deep earth, chose that word. For a dwarf, to be "entombed" by winter on the surface is the ultimate nightmare, a suffocating, freezing death far from the comforting embrace of stone. They've arrived in spring, yes, but that means their "harsh trek" was undertaken through the merciless bite of winter. That's why supplies are gone. That's why they're racing the clock, a desperate sprint to delve secure lodgings before the snows come and make their temporary, flimsy surface shelter a permanent, icy grave. How many expeditions, I wonder, were lost before they learned that particular, brutal lesson?

Into this cauldron of exhaustion, dwindling hope, and gnawing fear stumbles a fourteen-year-old noble orphan, fleeing a terror of her own. Naive doesn't even begin to cover it. She's a child of privilege, however ill-treated recently, thrust into a world of primal survival she cannot comprehend. She sees these grim, soot-stained, battle-weary figures, and in her youthful innocence or perhaps desperate need for normalcy, she slaps cutesy, storybook names on them. She doesn't understand what she's walked into, not in the slightest. Her story, the one we've all heard, is undoubtedly true from her limited, terrified perspective. But they have another story, a much grimmer one, unfolding in the shadows of her fairy tale.

Think about those names she assigns, filtered through her understanding:

• 'Doc'? He's probably their leader, that much is clear. But in a seven-dwarf expedition on the brink, a leader is also the chief medic, however rudimentary his skills – the one who had to make agonizing choices on that winter trek. He's their appraiser, their gemcutter when they finally find something worth cutting, their quartermaster, their strategist. He's the one who does whatever desperately needs doing, carrying the crushing weight of their survival on his shoulders.
• 'Grumpy'? Oh, I'd be perpetually grumpy too if I were their military expert, the one responsible for security in a land actively trying to kill them. Dangers lurk above, in the form of predators and perhaps hostile humanoids, and far worse, dangers lurk below. Cave-ins, treacherous gas pockets – those "singing birds" she finds so charming? Canaries, I'd wager, their delicate lives a constant, fragile countdown of good air in new tunnels. And then there are the other things, the ancient terrors that slumber in the deep places of the world. If some eldritch monstrosity, disturbed by their delving, were to break into their fledgling galleries, guess who’s tasked with buying time, with making the hopeless last stand while the others try to seal the breach or flee? He "rescues" Snow White not out of chivalry, but because it’s his sworn duty to assess any new arrival, any potential threat.
• 'Sleepy'? He's not lazy; he's collapsing from bone-deep exhaustion. He's likely pulling double, even triple duty – heaving a pickaxe by day, and then, when others seek fitful rest, he's their watchdwarf, his eyes raw and burning from peering into the oppressive darkness, listening for the snap of a twig or the scrape of a claw that could mean their end. His weariness is their shield.
• 'Dopey', the one prone to accidents? Perhaps he's not inherently foolish or clumsy. Perhaps he's near his psychological breaking point, the trauma of their journey or the sheer, unending labor having frayed his nerves to snapping. Or maybe he suffered a head wound protecting the others. Yet he toils on, a danger to himself but driven by that deep dwarven loyalty. He signed up for this. They rely on him. What alternative does he have?
• 'Sneezy'? That cough isn't a comical quirk; it's a death sentence. He's clearly, gravely sick. Did that brutal winter trek leave him with a lung infection that never healed? Or perhaps it's the dreaded miner's lung, silicosis, from being their best, most relentless digger, inhaling rock dust day after day. He works through it, each cough a rattling echo of his fading life, because he knows 'Doc' can do little, and to stop would be to let his kin down. He’ll dig until he drops.
• 'Bashful', the shy, quiet one? I see him as the specialist, the indispensable technician. Their engineer, designing the supports for their tunnels? Their craftsdwarf, able to mend tools or forge new ones from meager scraps? His work is solitary, precise, requiring intense concentration. Perhaps he feels the immense pressure to match the overt, physical efforts of the diggers with his quieter, but no less vital, contributions.
• And 'Happy'? Is he just a naturally cheerful fellow, a ray of sunshine in this grim band? Or is "Happy" a designated, vital role? In a situation this dire, despair is as deadly as any monster. He's the one tasked with maintaining morale, with leading the songs – and that "heigh ho" isn't just a jolly tune; it's a work song, a marching rhythm to keep weary limbs moving in unison, to foster a sense of shared purpose when everything seems lost. There's more to him, much more, than simple cheer.

And notice, they're not complaining about Sleepy's near-collapse or Dopey's fumbles. They know. They see the sacrifices each one is making, the silent burdens each dwarf carries. This isn't a group of individuals; it's a single, struggling organism.

Then there's her name, "Snow White". Does that truly sound like a human sobriquet her parents would choose? Or could it, just possibly, be the name they, the dwarves, gave her? For dwarves who live in terror of the winter that "entombs," for whom a landscape covered in the white of snow means death and failure, calling their unexpected, pale guest "Snow White" feels less like an observation on her complexion and more like a deeply ominous label, a personification of the white death they are desperately fighting to escape.

Yet, they keep her. They, with almost no supplies left, with winter breathing down their necks, take in another mouth to feed, a human child who knows nothing of their ways or their perils. At great, undeniable cost to themselves. My eyes narrow at that. Why would they do this? She's a noble, yes, her speech and bearing would scream that from minute zero. But ransom? These dwarves, according to her own awestruck account, have clearly struck the mother of all motherlodes. She describes gems and gold that leave her speechless, and a fourteen-year-old noble, even an orphaned one, has seen her share of riches. For her to be impressed, they can't just be showing her dull, dirty rocks. They must be showing her processed goods – brilliantly cut gemstones, heavy ingots of refined, gleaming gold. They're not just mining; they're crafting, with speed and skill that belies their desperate situation.

Could it be that they're not just digging for survival, but already planning to hawk finished trade goods? And she, this lost noble girl, is the one they hope will carry their extraordinary advertisement out of the wilderness? "Look at this incredible wealth," her story would scream to the right ears, "and look how well they treated me, a helpless maiden! They're skilled, they're rich, and they're open for business!"

No, this isn't about a ragged band of creepy beardos sexing up a teenager. I sincerely doubt dwarves find humans their particular type, aesthetically or otherwise, and these seven have far bigger, colder, and more terrifying fish to fry. Bashful's supposed "crush" on her? Far more likely a clumsy attempt by the others to smooth over their socially awkward engineer's interactions, or even a deliberate, calculated play to make her feel more comfortable, more trusting. They're grooming her, yes, but not for that. They need her to sing their praises, to put in a good word where it counts.

I picture the scene: initially, they were deeply suspicious. A human in their secret, precarious haven? A liability. They weren't counting on her. But then, perhaps as they saw her noble bearing, as they began to process the sheer, unbelievable scale of their find, one of them – Doc, with his leader's foresight? Grumpy, seeing an opportunity beyond the immediate threat? Or even Happy, the one with a mind for connection? – had an idea. A brilliant, audacious, incredibly dangerous idea. And that dwarf made one hell of a convincing argument to the others. "What if," they thought, their eyes gleaming in the firelight, "this girl, this 'Snow White,' this omen who walked into our lives, is our ticket to something gold and gems alone cannot buy?" Perhaps that's when they started pulling double, even triple shifts: not just to dig out their shelter, but to craft those impressive goods, to have something dazzling to show her, to plant the seeds of the story they needed her to tell. She was their walking, talking, breathing PR agency.

Then the poisoned apple. She "dies". It's a catastrophe, a disaster that, by some accounts, almost breaks them. Their plan, their living advertisement, their carefully cultivated human asset, is gone. It would be so easy, so pragmatic, to declare it a waste of time and dump her body down some forgotten venthole or access shaft. Get rid of the evidence, mourn the lost opportunity, and focus on survival. But no. They do the opposite. They build a glass coffin, a veritable shrine around her body. They still think her corpse has pull. Why?

My theory: that shrine isn't just a memorial born of grief. It's a strategic pivot. It's both a scarecrow and a billboard, to be deployed selectively, with masterful control of the narrative. Imagine the dwarven supply caravan from the Mountainhome finally arrives. The seven are ready. "Yes, we've struck it rich beyond imagining. And, well, we're already... engaging with the local human powers. This noble girl, you see... a terrible tragedy. We honored her according to their customs, as best we could". To the Mountainhome officials, it signals entanglement, complications, a situation already intertwined with unpredictable human politics. A subtle "hands-off, this is more complex than you think". A scarecrow.

Now, imagine a human merchant, perhaps guided by whispers or "accidentally" stumbling upon their valley. He sees the shrine, the beautiful, perfectly preserved girl in her crystal bier, surrounded by evidence of staggering wealth and craftsmanship. He hears the tragic, carefully crafted tale from the "grieving" dwarves. That story spreads like wildfire through human lands, carried on the winds of commerce and gossip, eventually reaching powerful, influential ears. A billboard.

You see, I don't think these seven were exiles, or on some officially sanctioned but ultimately suicidal mission. I think they were a standard expedition that hit the jackpot, a find so immense it changed everything. And with Snow White's arrival, they saw a chance. A chance to defect. To break away from the hierarchies and obligations of the Mountainhome, to found their own sovereign outpost, beholden to none but themselves. All that unimaginable wealth, combined with a powerful human alliance brokered by the legend of Snow White (alive or dead), could grant them the independence they suddenly craved. "Snow White" herself, her story, her very name, becomes a beacon, not just in the human lands drawing in potential allies, but echoing back in the deep halls of the Mountainhome too. For the dwarven decision-makers, an omen of their slipping control over a fabulously wealthy outlying mine. For the toiling masses of ordinary dwarves, a siren call to a place of untold opportunity and perhaps, a new way of life. These seven aren't just miners; they're instigating a geopolitical flashpoint, and they're positioning themselves right in the volatile, powerful center. No wonder they're working themselves to the point of collapse. They're digging for more than just mithril; they're digging for freedom.

And who's the most important player in this intricate, deadly game of diplomacy and subterfuge? Who is the one who needs to charm a lost princess, spin tales for worldly merchants, and perhaps subtly mislead a stern Mountainhome envoy? Why, it is 'Happy,' of course! He's not just their morale officer; he's their chief diplomat, their silver tongue, their ambassador to the outside world. The others are cutting him all that slack, understanding that his job, though less obviously physically strenuous, is perhaps the most critical, the most fraught with peril, for their grand, audacious ambition to succeed. His smile is their greatest weapon.

The tale of "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" might be the version humans hear, softened and simplified for our sensibilities. But I like to think that, fundamentally, it's a dwarven legend. Maybe it even has a very different, more complex name in their own ancient chronicles, full of honorifics and clan names. But perhaps, just perhaps, they kept the name "Snow White" for her part in it all. A name that, for them, would forever resonate with risk, opportunity, and the birth of their independence.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it...

---

You hear the dwarves tell their version of the tale you know so well, and your mind wanders. It's amazing how little we humans know of dwarven lore. You wonder how many stories they've got, just like this one.

A rich mine like that? You only know of one other dwarven story featuring a mine that bountiful, and that one is not a safe topic for a human to bring up around dwarves, that's for sure!

You wonder if they shared the same fate. They both had happy beginnings, didn't they? You never heard the story of how that other one got founded, but you know how it ended, and it wasn't with singing dwarves, ha!

Makes one think, what happened to all that wealth. Generations after the original seven, after the surface layers were stripped out. You wonder if, in Snow White's mine, their heirs also kept finding riches as they peeled layer after layer of stone, digging deeper and deeper, until...

... Oh.

It can't be her, can it? Although... they were both mountains, obviously, and both nestled deep in a forest, both surrounded by fog, entrance bordered by a mirror-still lake, both a winter's march away from the Mountainhomes, both...

Are those two tales...? They're the two most well known dwarven tales - to humans, at least - maybe both of them...

But surely not. Must be the ale speaking. 'Wow, this dwarven ale really is something, isn't it?' you think to yourself.

"But wait," you cannot resist, "when was this?"

The dwarf smiles. You might be imagining things, but you're pretty sure the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Long ago, lad. A very long time ago."