Is it possible to have non-cliché dwarfs?

[Naruzeldamaster]

Absolutely. There's a world of great dwarf stuff if one is looking to work harder. We, however, did not go there. Our dwarves don't have accents that I try to implicitly spell out. I don't even do that with characters who have accents, like Cian and Etienne, two of our sidhe princes. It's a taste thing. I think put-on accents are annoying. So, we've got dwarves and they ride bears. Really awesome, massive forges. It's very cool. lol

Two of my rabbit folk have a 'southern drawl' but one of them speaks it more openly than the other, they don't force the accent in their dialogue except using words like ain't etc. The Older sibling of the two likes to think she's a 'city slicker' and speaks more "civilized"

I don't believe it's ever stated that they HAVE a southern drawl to begin with, but they do occasionally 'break character' and use 'country folk' dialect/phrasing. Especially the one who prefers to 'keep it vanilla'

 

[A. E. Lowan]

I just do this. lol
~~~
Etienne held it open for her. She smiled at his courtesy and stepped inside. “So… rumor mill has it we’re having a major expansion. What have you heard?” she asked in that quick fashion as he followed her into a hallway, dark after the bright sunshine, and she looked back at him with curiosity. English only being one of Etienne’s languages, he heard several terms he did not understand and so replied with a shrug. She waved negligently in his direction, turning away again. “Well, I guess Grounds Management wouldn’t hear too much, huh?” she said with very mild disappointment.

Etienne gave her back an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I guess not.”

She turned back, plucked brows lifted. “Oh, wow… great accent. Where are you from?”

Etienne fell back on his usual explanation. “Ireland, but my father was French.” There, no one could complain about how muddy his accent was to humans. Besides, it was basically true. His birth language was Faerie Gaelic, and his father had been a medieval French troubadour.

 

[Naruzeldamaster]

I just do this. lol
~~~
Etienne held it open for her. She smiled at his courtesy and stepped inside. “So… rumor mill has it we’re having a major expansion. What have you heard?” she asked in that quick fashion as he followed her into a hallway, dark after the bright sunshine, and she looked back at him with curiosity. English only being one of Etienne’s languages, he heard several terms he did not understand and so replied with a shrug. She waved negligently in his direction, turning away again. “Well, I guess Grounds Management wouldn’t hear too much, huh?” she said with very mild disappointment.

Etienne gave her back an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I guess not.”

She turned back, plucked brows lifted. “Oh, wow… great accent. Where are you from?”

Etienne fell back on his usual explanation. “Ireland, but my father was French.” There, no one could complain about how muddy his accent was to humans. Besides, it was basically true. His birth language was Faerie Gaelic, and his father had been a medieval French troubadour.

You might like my original character Tobi from my RWBY fanfiction. He brings the sass like this fella has but he does so while feigning being stoic. He doesn't do so on purpose, it's just his natural behavior. He's so serious most of the time that when he does bring the sass/sarcasm people are stunned he has a sense of humor. He does, but he plays it close to the chest. Speaking with his emotions got him in trouble with the family (mostly his dad) so he adapted. That said, you do NOT want to cross him. Brother has his own orbital laser that he can and will use under dire straights. He hasn't used it yet but the threat is there. He's not even sure the thing will fire given it's age, but he can turn on the laser sight at least. He's also strong enough without it since he's one of the few characters in the series with proper magic.

I don't tend to focus on accents even if my characters have them, I might mention their accent origin their first dialogue but that's about all the attention it's given.

 

[A. E. Lowan]

You might like my original character Tobi from my RWBY fanfiction. He brings the sass like this fella has but he does so while feigning being stoic. He doesn't do so on purpose, it's just his natural behavior. He's so serious most of the time that when he does bring the sass/sarcasm people are stunned he has a sense of humor. He does, but he plays it close to the chest. Speaking with his emotions got him in trouble with the family (mostly his dad) so he adapted. That said, you do NOT want to cross him. Brother has his own orbital laser that he can and will use under dire straights. He hasn't used it yet but the threat is there. He's not even sure the thing will fire given it's age, but he can turn on the laser sight at least. He's also strong enough without it since he's one of the few characters in the series with proper magic.

I don't tend to focus on accents even if my characters have them, I might mention their accent origin their first dialogue but that's about all the attention it's given.

Okay, now you've got me showing off. Again. This is our introduction to dwarves. Little long, but my reputation precedes me.

~~
She nodded. “I hope so.” And she swung her feet out of the car.

Etienne got out and moved to the other side where Winter was struggling with the awkward rack. She had exchanged it for one full of potions at Ceallach’s twisting Brittle Keep. “Here, let me.” His voice came out gruff, gruffer than he really intended, but he took the rack with careful hands and stepped back for Winter to let herself out of the car.

She rewarded him with one of her bright smiles, and his heart sped up. “Thank you, Etienne.” She hitched her big purple bag up on one shoulder and gave him a light, lingering kiss on the cheek before moving past him to the sand-strewn stone path leading to the ornately carved front door.

Etienne’s cool cheek burned from the heat of her kiss, and he followed in silence.

Winter pushed open the door, smiled at Etienne over her shoulder, and then stepped into chaos.

Mulcahy House was filled with raucous laughter from dozens of throats and words that Etienne had not heard in several mortal lifetimes.

Dwarven.

“You need a towel!” A naked, dripping dwarf, stocky and powerfully built, was making his way down the left staircase, Cian, the other sidhe lord who lived with Winter, chasing after him with baby Noel secure in one arm and a thick dark-blue bath sheet in the other hand. He met Etienne’s gaze and returned Etienne’s confusion with both panic and exasperation.

Etienne watched the dwarf wander by and down the hall, towel now in hand. “What’s going on?” he asked Cian.

Cian shrugged. “They showed up a few hours ago. Most of them are in the kitchen.”

“Who the hell let them in?” It could only have been one of five people, and he and Winter hadn’t been home. Etienne didn’t think he’d have let them in, either way.

Cian’s chin lifted and he met Etienne’s gaze, eyes green as all the colors of spring. “I did.”

Etienne opened his mouth, bit the words back, and then started again. “What the fuck for?”

That little lift took on a definite air of defiance, Cian’s red-gold hair shifting against his shoulders. “I couldn’t just leave them standing in the cold.”

Etienne snorted. “Of course you could.” He pushed the front door closed with his foot. “See? Easy.”

Winter gave him a light smack on the shoulder. “Stop that. Guests are always welcome here.” The sound of something fragile breaking reached their ears, and she sighed. “How many dwarves, again?”

Cian shifted Noel to a different position, now looking a little sheepish. “Couple dozen, maybe?” He patted the infant’s backside. “And it’s time for a fresh diaper. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Etienne muttered under his breath as he put the bottle rack on the floor by the door. It was very Winter to let in all and sundry. He’d have to address the dwarf issue himself. He asked the House to take care of the rack of tiny empty bottles and set off down the hall, curious and angry about the invasion in turns. He’d thought he’d left this crap behind him years ago.

Winter followed close behind him.

“You head upstairs with Cian. I can handle this.”

Winter shook her head, those dainty, stubborn lines pulling at the corners of her mouth. “My house, too, Etienne. I—” Her attention was taken by two dwarven women arm wrestling in full armor at the mahogany dining room table. She frowned. “That will scratch.”

Etienne paused in the doorway. “You two, knock that off.”

The women laughed but stopped their game.

Winter raised a pale brow. “That wasn’t Faerie Gaelic.”

“No, it was Dwarven.”

She said, voice soft with compassion, “I remember you once said that you spent some time with the dwarves. How long was it?”

Etienne was quiet for a moment, missing his named weapon, the six-shooter Agmundr, destroyed by a great sidhe prince in October. It had been dwarven made and had kept him relatively safe for years. “Too long.” Or maybe not long enough. It depended on the memory.

They burst into the kitchen through a wall of sound. The deaf English wizard, Fitz Martin, sat at the table surrounded by dwarves, weaving in place as he went drink for drink with a pretty, redheaded dwarven maid in exquisitely crafted green and gold armor, her hair sheared helmet-short and curling about her ears. The rest were feasting on what looked like every leftover in the house and taking bets on the drinking contest, mostly against Fitz. Over in the corner, the other English wizards Alerich Ashimar and Thomas Griffin were speaking in serious tones to a dwarf of above average height with his wide back to Etienne.

Alerich’s acerbic twin, Elspeth, was nowhere in sight. Not exactly a big loss.

One of the drunker dwarves noticed Winter and made to pinch her narrow backside. Etienne grabbed his wrist, twisting it, and had to remind himself not to break it as the ulna and radius shifted beneath his fingers, heavy dwarven bones or not. Instead, he bellowed over the cacophony, “What the sweet fuck is going on here?”

The dwarf with Alerich turned, and Etienne felt his heart stutter. Ráthulfr, son of Ragnarr, prince of dwarves, and master smith. The one who had forged Agmundr.

Etienne’s former master.

Ráthulfr’s expression was grave, and he pointed to an empty chair nearby with his massive, forge-scarred hand. “Sit down, boy. We need to talk.”