As Subjects

"What do you will, my Queen?", one dwarf trembled out, finally, his youthful (only 304 years old) bravdo startling the rest.

"Well...hmmm....I am hungry...and I need a foot rub! Have we got any roasted pierquat left?"

They hadn't, of course, it like everything else, was long gone, but that didn't matter to the dwarves. She was their queen, THE QUEEN, after all.

"Yes my Queen, one dwarf proclaimed, right away!!!", and with pick-axe still in hand ran off to get the delicacy the Queen desired, ready to sell himself into abject poverty, or slavery, if it demanded it.

But the foot massage, that was another matter.

The head dwarves, those that had a chance, had sniffed like hunting dogs and each eyed the other, eager and jealous to rub the Queen's feet, especially to be the first.

It would be better than being rich, than never having to work.