Last dwarven city

This is the year 1060 or so in my game, and there are no big Dwarven civs left. Just wandering bands. I'm the only dwarven city left alive. And I'm impregnable.

The humans ask why I do it, when there might be more profit in the mountains. The elves scoff at my idiocy — though they show up every year to buy my goods, even after an entire caravan of theirs was taken out by gobbos.

Why? Why, you ask?

Because my home was destroyed. Because unless I make a home somewhere, I'll be a wanderer. Because until Urist McKickAss set down his pickaxe at Snakeflagged and said, "This is my new home, because no one else wants it. This is where we make our final stand. We are the last, great hope of Dwarf kind, and we will not fail..."

Until he said that — right before he got ripped to pieces by an undead crocodile — we had no home. We carved this home out of bone and rock, soil and ore. We fought undead monstrosities, forgotten horrors, walking legends, evil goblins, and living nature itself to make our home here.

And you won't be taking my home without a fight.