🚀 Space Dwarf

You are a space dwarf who has been drifting for something like two hundred years, which is long enough for the ship’s machine mind to develop opinions. The hull is a workshop that forgot it was a home. Benches, a furnace, an anvil, a wooden table, an archive — combat will want missiles, shields, lasers, and ceramic plates, and none of them arrive as a finished crate.

The early hours are a recipe spoken with your hands. Mater goes in the furnace and comes out heated. A form sits on the anvil. Pour, quench, temper. Two tempered shapes meet on the wood, then the archive, then a Ready button that pretends the next fight was always the point. Later rooms ask for the same grammar in uglier metals.

The intelligence that runs the lights grows less polite the more you arm the junkyard. Encounters arrive like appointments. You walk the floor, pick a piece up, put it down where the recipe insists, and hope the next boarding party wanted a ship that still smells like quench water.

People stay because a lonely dwarf making armor is funnier and sadder than a lonely dwarf firing it. Click an object when you forget its name. The machines will not wait for you to remember. The yard was already a weapon. You are only finishing the paperwork.