In the dark tunnels of the mountain, the sharp ring of a pickaxe echoes. This is the Gold Digger — a gnome who reads stone the way others read a book, seeing through the rock what is hidden from everyone else.
His pickaxes are no ordinary tools. Both are etched with runes he carved himself: one for finding, one for strength. The sack on his back is already heavy: gold, quartz, something bluish he has not yet named. On his hat burns a candle — lighting narrow tunnels and deep cracks, and when it begins to burn low, reminding him: time to surface, breathe forest air, and return in the morning.
The pipe at the brim of his hat is lit exactly three times a day — always at the same moments: when he begins, when he finds something worth finding, and when he surfaces for the evening. These are, he has decided, the three moments that actually make a day.
Sometimes he keeps a single nugget for himself — for a reason he has never explained to anyone. The gnomes do not ask. Every good craftsman has things that stay with him.