A Dwarf of the People
Dorin didn't walk, he marched. He stumped through the ancient Hall of Guardians in a way that was at odds with the way others tended to glide through, or prance through. He stumped through as perhaps even a deliberate slight to the lofty fookers that thought of this place as theirs.
His face was in a perpetually resting scowl and his eyes watched things with a calm stoicism that swept the room carefully. He'd been the target of assassins before. A professional troublemaker that irritated the wealthy and powerful was bound to run into them if he was worth a damn at all, after all.
His predecessors perhaps did the same, and he knew it.
A short boulder of a dwarf, he had the beard, a bristling black and red thing lovingly kempt in the ancient traditions of their people. Dwarven memories were the stone, it was said, and they did not forget their ancient ways or even language, they held grimly on despite the odds and the silence of the Gods.
But here, in the flickering of torchlight from sconces in the hallways, he broke custom with the axe that he carried over his shoulder. As just emerged from the Temple of Udrau and the cleansing rituals, and then a vigil at the shrine of Zhakah, the Lord of Under, to pray to a deity that had never answered, he then decided that the ancient formalities were not his formalities and he was a damned dwarf. And the pragmatic dwarven response to this state of affairs, with the bloodstains barely mopped up from the Hall he was about to enter, was to carry the fookin' axe.
Dorin Stoneskull was not a dwarf to be told no. And the greenclad Lichtors, young Purebloods clearly as nervous as he, were 'escorting him' with ceremonial staffs in hand. Three pairs of eyes moved down, up, back, forth, left and right, the place was columns, statues, nooks, crannies and scurrying servants here and there as fleeting shadows in the place as evening started to descend upon Dara.
He didn't wear a breastplate, though his back itched a bit at the exposure, but he did wear stout leather in strategic places along with the cloak and cotton long tunic that was light, airy and the standard attire, even for stubborn dwarves that claimed to not feel the heat, in Dara. Tanned, creased, muscled, squat and like a boulder, with that forceful stride, he still had a heart. He saw one of his escorts struggling to keep up and paused. At rest, a dwarf could be stock still. They were not graceful like elves, or light on their feet in the way of the wee folk, but dwarves could be unnaturally still, like the rocks themselves, when at rest, which wasn't often because they were industrious. But all dwarves could settle into a spot to focus on their work, they could bring themselves into the mode of finding immense joy in the rythmns of work. But they also were watchful, steady. And perhaps it was that steadiness that made them so still when they stopped.
"We'll wait up lad, mend the sandal then," he told the younger of his escorts, a pimple faced sweating youth barely old enough to be considered in puberty, if he judged right.
As usual, he was the earliest to the meeting. "We have time to wait a bit."
That was not his happiest statement, and the two Lictors were not happy either. The doors to the Chamber, the center of the Hall of Guardians and reason for its existence, stood there, overwhelming, stout, carved with an oddly angular but flowing arrangement that spoke to a love of the metal being engraved. It was dwarven work, made with chisels, hammers, and other tools that Dorin forged. He could, for a while, pause to enjoy the thought of the work done in the past, perhaps as a way to escape the overwhelming sensation of dread that was attached to the chamber beyond. He was a guardian now, and they'd barely cleaned the blood of his predecessors off the floor.
There were only questions, and the questions already seemed to make more questions.
Piss.
Dorin didn't walk, he marched. He stumped through the ancient Hall of Guardians in a way that was at odds with the way others tended to glide through, or prance through. He stumped through as perhaps even a deliberate slight to the lofty fookers that thought of this place as theirs.
His face was in a perpetually resting scowl and his eyes watched things with a calm stoicism that swept the room carefully. He'd been the target of assassins before. A professional troublemaker that irritated the wealthy and powerful was bound to run into them if he was worth a damn at all, after all.
His predecessors perhaps did the same, and he knew it.
A short boulder of a dwarf, he had the beard, a bristling black and red thing lovingly kempt in the ancient traditions of their people. Dwarven memories were the stone, it was said, and they did not forget their ancient ways or even language, they held grimly on despite the odds and the silence of the Gods.
But here, in the flickering of torchlight from sconces in the hallways, he broke custom with the axe that he carried over his shoulder. As just emerged from the Temple of Udrau and the cleansing rituals, and then a vigil at the shrine of Zhakah, the Lord of Under, to pray to a deity that had never answered, he then decided that the ancient formalities were not his formalities and he was a damned dwarf. And the pragmatic dwarven response to this state of affairs, with the bloodstains barely mopped up from the Hall he was about to enter, was to carry the fookin' axe.
Dorin Stoneskull was not a dwarf to be told no. And the greenclad Lichtors, young Purebloods clearly as nervous as he, were 'escorting him' with ceremonial staffs in hand. Three pairs of eyes moved down, up, back, forth, left and right, the place was columns, statues, nooks, crannies and scurrying servants here and there as fleeting shadows in the place as evening started to descend upon Dara.
He didn't wear a breastplate, though his back itched a bit at the exposure, but he did wear stout leather in strategic places along with the cloak and cotton long tunic that was light, airy and the standard attire, even for stubborn dwarves that claimed to not feel the heat, in Dara. Tanned, creased, muscled, squat and like a boulder, with that forceful stride, he still had a heart. He saw one of his escorts struggling to keep up and paused. At rest, a dwarf could be stock still. They were not graceful like elves, or light on their feet in the way of the wee folk, but dwarves could be unnaturally still, like the rocks themselves, when at rest, which wasn't often because they were industrious. But all dwarves could settle into a spot to focus on their work, they could bring themselves into the mode of finding immense joy in the rythmns of work. But they also were watchful, steady. And perhaps it was that steadiness that made them so still when they stopped.
"We'll wait up lad, mend the sandal then," he told the younger of his escorts, a pimple faced sweating youth barely old enough to be considered in puberty, if he judged right.
As usual, he was the earliest to the meeting. "We have time to wait a bit."
That was not his happiest statement, and the two Lictors were not happy either. The doors to the Chamber, the center of the Hall of Guardians and reason for its existence, stood there, overwhelming, stout, carved with an oddly angular but flowing arrangement that spoke to a love of the metal being engraved. It was dwarven work, made with chisels, hammers, and other tools that Dorin forged. He could, for a while, pause to enjoy the thought of the work done in the past, perhaps as a way to escape the overwhelming sensation of dread that was attached to the chamber beyond. He was a guardian now, and they'd barely cleaned the blood of his predecessors off the floor.
There were only questions, and the questions already seemed to make more questions.
Piss.