Elendor
Of Beards and Boasting
Danir gives a gate guard the rough edge of her tongue, a tipsy Dorn is mistaken for a hobbit, and Bardur composes an inspirational ditty.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Erebor: Inside Main Gate
Game Date: January 3058
IC Time: Morning
Description: First Hall, South End
Leaping, bubbling, burbling from the stone high above springs the River Running, and with a constant, but subtle roar, it cascades down into a basin at the center of this vast, bejeweled cavern, then runs in a diamond clear stream under a foot bridge, and through a grate under the massive, seemingly hingeless gate of steel and stone. Hewn to perfection by the stone-loving hands of the dwarves, the chamber radiates a sense of both beauty, power, and something beyond both. Dwarves of numerous descriptions move about, many of whom seem to be guards of some sort or another. A look at the gates shows them to be closed.
Contents:
Great Statue of Mahal
Marble Obelisk Scriven with Runes (IMPORTANT INFO)
Obvious exits:
Narrow Stairs leads to Stables Under the Mountain.
Northwest leads to Hall of Nain.
Erebor Time & Weather Service
** Real time is: Wed Jan 23 06:23:35 2013, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Midnight (2400) on Trewsday, Day 3 of January 3058.
In the outer world's snowy Winter sky, The full moon sails through the firmament like an iridescent ship.
[Danir(#28691)]
"What do you mean you lost the key?" demands a surly dwarf of the guard at the closed front gates. It's morning now, and there's no sun to be seen the sky is filled with the threat of continuing snow. The surly dwarf paces back and forth in front of the gate, beaming an angry glare at the guard as she awaits his answer, though she doesn't take a break from berating him to let him answer. "You spent too much time at the tavern last night, didn't ya? I can't believe you only have ONE key for the gate. Where's the extra? Who has it? Why haven't you woke him up yet? I have business to take care of down in Dale today, and if I miss my sale on account of your ineptitude ..." she trails off menacingly, even shaking the hook of her left arm at him.
With the morn come the would-be travellers - though whether the dark head that weaves this way and that on a meandering path through the chamber belongs to one such, who can say? Its owner appears to be following the course of the River in fits and starts: every now and then he halts to hum something in his deep-throated voice before plodding on.
It takes a while for the sound of irate voices (or should that be just one voice?) to break into his concentration - when it does, the young black-bearded Dwarf lifts his head and blinks. "Oh!" comes the initial exclamation and then, peering at the place where the rushing river disappears and sniffing the air, the newcomer remarks in bemusement, "It does not seem weather for travel, cousin."
[Dorn(#13467)]
"He does not waddle! Does he?" Trailing behind only slightly deaf dwarven warrior whose weight it is that is the topic of discussion, is a young dwarf, looking ever so slightly disheveled seeing as he's not on duty this morning. In fact, it is entirely possible that him and his friend, a fully armored and hic... ready to go gate guard, have JUST exited the pub. And he's only slightly late for his watch by the door. It's not like the other dwarf doesn't have the key! Life won't stop just because one dwarf was drunkenly held back by his friend to do a drinking game called: Guess The Colour of Underpants of That Dwarf.
The right answer in most cases seemed to be: What pants?
Chuckling, Dorn stops and straightens his friend's helmet that is just a tad crooked, turning him around and sending him toward the guard he is supposed to be relieving. But of course, his curiousity is piqued as he finds the front of the gate a little occupied by some small gathering. Clutching a nearly empty flagon, the young Warder approaches, his eyebrows raising at the annoyed sounds. "Ech, don't worry. Dalor's here now! He can open the gates... Unless we... er, he lost the key." Turning to his silent buddy, Dorn slaps the fellow on the back, to which he responds to falling flat on his face. Ooops.
[Danir(#28691)]
Turning toward the newly arrived dwarf, Danir comments to him with a bit of the bark she possibly intended for the guard. "Weather has no bearing on trade, cousin. The wheels of my wagon have gone through heavier snow than this, have gone over thin, rutted mountain passes that seemed almost impossible to climb." Motioning her hook toward the river, she adds, "Were the river frozen, not flowing, it wouldn't give me reason to delay my trip." Turning away from the yet un-named Bardur toward the guard, Danir continues:
"In all my days of merchanting, I ain't never missed a meeting. Not even when I had to stop to kill orcs and trolls on the way." Her voice crescendos again. "And now you mean to ..." as she's speaking, the gate is approached again, and this time by two more un-named dwarves, both of whom seem to be seriously intoxicated. She's heard just enough of the newcomer's words to stare incredulously at the guard. "You entrust the key to ... to ..." she eyes Dorn up and down with disdain. "To hobbits?"
At Danir's words to him the black-bearded dwarf perhaps betrays his youth, for his eyes light up as he exclaims, "There sounds a journey with a few untold tales within! Should you find reason to .. delay ..." he glances blankly at the Warder on duty, but stony faces reveal little and hastily he ploughs on, "that is, if you've a few moments to spare while the gates are oiled, I'd be glad to buy the ale to wet your throat. Bard-"
Any greeting is cut off as talk of orcs and trolls turns to mention of hobbits. Looking quite bewildered, he spins round to see this wondrous sight (who let a hobbit into the Mountain? Why didn't he hear the gossip about it?)
[Dorn(#13467)]
Some day poor Dalor would appreciate the 'help' his friend has given him but at this moment, Dorn is but damaging everything the other has worked for, by leaning down and searching his pockets. Turning him over, the young warrior tries to find the desired gate key that has caused all that fuss. Slowly, a line is beginning to gather, of irritated dwarves - some wanting to get outside, others just showing their disdain at the shape of the gate guard 'replacement'.
Finally fishing the key from the passed out friend's shield where he has attached it, Dorn stumbles up, holding out the key with a cheerful expression:"See? No problems at all!" At the traveling party - an old one with a hook hand and the other -, he merely shrugs but then the meaning behind these mean words begins to sink in.
"You take that back!" he insists, tossing his flagon onto the ground and taking a step forward. "I am a lot more of a dwarf than you are, you... you...," try as he might, all his mind can come up with insult-wise is a meager "wench!"
[Danir(#28691)]
And in that moment, rather than fuming and fussing even louder, Danir tosses back her head and barks a loud laugh. Her upper body shakes with such hearty laughter that she's forced to place her hand on her stomach just to keep her beard from flopping around. After what had to have been an hour or two of hard laughing, Danir wipes a few tears from the corners of her eyes and straightens. Looking back at Bardur, whose name she still doesn't know, and struggles to maintain a straight face as she comments to him:
"A beard and a body like that and he thinks he's a dwarf? I'd say his papa was a hobbit and his momma didn't want to say so."
Looking back at the hobbit, she offers him a smirk. "Aye, you're so much more a dwarf than I am. You can't even grow a beard. What kind of dwarf can't grow a beard? And how many trolls have you killed, hmm? How many orcs even?"
Bardur's first instinct on seeing Dorn is to reach for his own glossy black beard as though to check it's still there. He strokes it for reassurance.
The exchange of insults is registered with mild interest Danir's words bring a rumble of laughter but then he murmurs, "Cousin, with all due respect, I am not sure those words will win the key." Which means ... what? Fight overdue? He steps back to allow the would-be combatants room, patting his belt pouch as though checking if he has enough coin for a wager on one party.
[Dorn(#13467)]
No matter how many times he's heard it, it still stings! No matter how hard he may have tried, it's no use. Still angered by it, Dorn is rendered quite speechless at the amount of abuse laid on him and he was just being helpful what with getting the key and everything! "My mo--," he starts and then stops as he stares at the old dwarf with a baffled look. "Oh, you ARE a wench! Well, I be damned..." Once again, words fail him like they often do and he shakes his head gruffly. You can't be mad at women, they're probably just... well, whatever it is that makes them always so foul toward all the males.
"Why can't I ever meet -nice- women?" he half-turns and asks nobody in specific though his eyes stop on Bardur for a moment, with his glossy black beard. Is that envy in his eyes? Well, if Dorn could grow a proper glossy sandy beard, would he be standing here getting mocked by a woman with one arm? It might be the alcohol dimming his emotions or it might be the respect built into every young dwarf toward the women of dwarf race but instead of charging at the old bat, he waves his hand dismissively:"I've killed plenty orcs, I have you know. No trolls though." Credit where it's true. Be what he might but Dorn is not one to lie. Boast, sure! "Horde of orcs and a few spiders!" So what the spiders were the tiny ones he could step on...
[Danir(#28691)]
"No disrespect to you or yours, lad," Danir says quietly, almost politely to Bardur, "But the key should not need to be won. The gate," she adds, looking up at the sky, "should have been open before dawn and it's now mid-morning. I'll be late for my appointment," she grumps.
Her lips twitch just slightly when she overhears Dorn's question that might as well been to himself as anyone else. "Aye, I am a wench, how good of you to notice. You'd meet plenty of nice women if you went to the Shire, lad. 'course, you'd have to worry about them being related, wouldn't you?" Her eyes roam up and down the beardlings frame before she points out, "Killing an orc ain't much of nothing really. But you say you killed some spiders, eh?" She appraises him carefully before commenting, "You can't be more than 60 or 70, lad. Your momma's let you out to kill spiders, has she? You wouldn't be meaning ones you can squish with your thumb, would you?"
Bardur's patting of his belt pouch stops and he extracts a sharpened stick of charcoal and a small roll of vellum. His blue eyes brighten immediately. Danir's talk is greeted by an absent nod - no help here - as he moves to a place where an angle in the precisely hewn rock wall forms a little shelf. Leaning his vellum on it, he begins to scribble, humming softly under his breath. Were one to listen carefully (but of course, who would do that?), they might hear the following little ditty emerge:
"A Dwarf, it's said, has blessings three:
Stout strength of arm for all to see
A cunning crafter's mind within
And bounteous beard upon his chin.
"Yet spare a thought for cruel fate,
Who taunts beside a lock-ed gate ...
The humming breaks off.
"No, no, that really won't do!"
[Dorn(#13467)]
What a disgrace! A guard drunk on duty and a youngster arguing with a lady dwarf over whether or not he's killed any orcs or not. An impatient traveler coughs nervously from behind Dorn and he only now seems to remember the key which he hands to the gate guard who has lost his.
"Some orcs are bigger than others," says Dorn with a frown as he listens to the old one, choosing to ignore her snide comments about his possible hobbit ancestry. "Of course it's a bit of something," is added and he leans down to pick up his now sadly empty flagon.
"L-lady, you are a mean bat," he points at Danir and sighs. "I am muuuch older than seventy... hic!" With a little curiousity toward the scribbling skald, and all things considered, the young Warden then seems to realize that this scene does not bode too well for him, let alone his passed out buddy Dalor. As the gates are opened, he waves the crowd toward the opening and glances about. No superiors about just yet. He might make his escape still! What was the woman saying again? "Oh spiders!" he blurted out with a slightly awkward smile. Can't lie, can't tell the truth, what to do? What to do? Pointing a finger at Darnir, he finally resolves to saying:"Your momma..."
[Danir(#28691)]
"No, it really won't do," Danir agrees. "I like that first bit, but your rhythm is off on the second and it doesn't really tie into the first part, but keep trying," she says encouragingly, though her tone and manner are still rather gruff.
With the gates now opening, she's slightly less annoyed when she responds again to Dorn. "Aye, my momma died when orcs raided our camp when I was a lass of 20. What were you going to say about her?" she asks, pushing the hook of her left arm toward him. "Now, if you lost your beard in battle - and I've seen some that have - you'd be respected, but lad, looking like that ... you'd be better off shearing a sheep and sewing it to yer face."
Bardur nods despondently at Danir's words to him. "Lets see ... fare, hair, bare ..." He sighs, squints and tries again:
"Yet some Dwarves do not fare so well,
In shape to wear or tale to tell
Take comfort, those whose beard is thin,
The greatest blessing lies within!"
Bardur beams in satisfied fashion, stops scribbling and lets the vellum roll up again.
But then his gaze as he glances about the rapidly emptying hall falls on Dorn waving his empty ale-mug. Solemnly he intones,
"If you lack in facial hair,
Take heart my friend: do not despair,
But drink up deep and head home quick
Before that friend of yours is sick!"
How's poor old Dalor doing? Could he really be ...?
[Dorn(#13467)]
Taken aback a little by the flow of confusing and somewhat sad information coming from the old lady, Dorn steps back. He's got so much to live for, beard or no, why waste it by insulting a woman of all things? And a hook in his gut doesn't sound like a comfortable thing either, no sir! "... musta been so proud of you," he finishes at last and nods. That was pretty suave, if he says so himself! "Look, missus, I don't know why you be picking on me, I didn't lose the bloody key!" The verse is greeted with a blank stare from the Warder as he considers the words and as the last line is heard, peers toward his unconcious friend. But on the other hand, from somewhere not far, the clank of heavy footsteps of several soldiers is echoing. Oh dear, that has to be some officer or another! But how would one abandon a friend? The dilemma is slowly worked through as he decides to face the music and heads to Dalor, prodding and poking and finally, propping him up. With great effort, too! The gate guard, realizing full well, Dalor won't be a dutiful guard today, mutters a crisp curse.
"Come on, Dalor, open your eyes. You gonna get me in trouble!" demands Dorn as he slaps the fellow harshly. Should have stayed at the pub, he should...
[Danir(#28691)]
"Those whose beards are thin," Danir calls quietly over to Bardur, correcting him as gently as she can manage. "And I don't disagree with you either cousin. A dwarf's greatest blessing lies within his ability to kill orcs and trolls," she says, misunderstanding what he'd truly meant with those words. Turning her attention back to Dorn, she speaks:
"You think people ain't said mean things to me ever since that troll got my arm?" She waves her hook again, and perhaps that's why she was waving it before. "People have said as I ain't a real dwarf because my fighting arm was chewed off, but I learned how to fight with my other arm and had a special shield made for this other one." She watches the prodding and poking of Dalor but doesn't seem too inclined to lean in and help him. "And if you can't take a friendly jibe or two about the fact you look like a hobbit, then you probably ain't cut out for much more than doling out drinks in the tavern."
Bardur watches Dorn curiously for the effects of his words. "He really doesn't look so lively," he comments worriedly. "I think you should move him."
Danir's correction has him tugging on his own beard thoughtfully for a moment. "Dear me, you're quite right!" he exclaims. "I'll correct that right now - or no, perhaps it does need a little polishing before I present it at the Longbeard tavern. Safe journey, cousin - and to you, cousin," he's looking to Dorn now, "my thanks for providing inspiration." He bows and wanders off, quite oblivious to any insult he's just given.
[Dorn(#13467)]
"It's not my beard that does the killing, anyway," Dorn mutters in addition to the discussion about who is and who isn't a real dwarf and how to become one. "Well, if it makes you feel any better," and he doubts it does the slightest, "that hook is probably a darn good thing to use... on orcs." All this is said as he continues his attempts at waking up Dalor but soon enough, it is too late. The Skald is regarded seriously for a brief moment. "Longbeard eh? I'll have to come and hear it then. Until then!"
News of this disturbance has reached the rest of the guards and now there are more than enough to hold the damned gate from a goblin army! As for the two unfortunate drunkards... well, they probably would be reprimanded harshly but since the key was found and the dwarf DID show up for his shift - though he passed out almost immediately -, the lad is given another chance. And Dorn, he was just supporting his buddy! Honest, Captain!
Leaping, bubbling, burbling from the stone high above springs the River Running, and with a constant, but subtle roar, it cascades down into a basin at the center of this vast, bejeweled cavern, then runs in a diamond clear stream under a foot bridge, and through a grate under the massive, seemingly hingeless gate of steel and stone. Hewn to perfection by the stone-loving hands of the dwarves, the chamber radiates a sense of both beauty, power, and something beyond both. Dwarves of numerous descriptions move about, many of whom seem to be guards of some sort or another. A look at the gates shows them to be closed.
Contents:
Great Statue of Mahal
Marble Obelisk Scriven with Runes (IMPORTANT INFO)
Obvious exits:
Narrow Stairs leads to Stables Under the Mountain.
Northwest leads to Hall of Nain.
Erebor Time & Weather Service
** Real time is: Wed Jan 23 06:23:35 2013, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Midnight (2400) on Trewsday, Day 3 of January 3058.
In the outer world's snowy Winter sky, The full moon sails through the firmament like an iridescent ship.
[Danir(#28691)]
"What do you mean you lost the key?" demands a surly dwarf of the guard at the closed front gates. It's morning now, and there's no sun to be seen the sky is filled with the threat of continuing snow. The surly dwarf paces back and forth in front of the gate, beaming an angry glare at the guard as she awaits his answer, though she doesn't take a break from berating him to let him answer. "You spent too much time at the tavern last night, didn't ya? I can't believe you only have ONE key for the gate. Where's the extra? Who has it? Why haven't you woke him up yet? I have business to take care of down in Dale today, and if I miss my sale on account of your ineptitude ..." she trails off menacingly, even shaking the hook of her left arm at him.
With the morn come the would-be travellers - though whether the dark head that weaves this way and that on a meandering path through the chamber belongs to one such, who can say? Its owner appears to be following the course of the River in fits and starts: every now and then he halts to hum something in his deep-throated voice before plodding on.
It takes a while for the sound of irate voices (or should that be just one voice?) to break into his concentration - when it does, the young black-bearded Dwarf lifts his head and blinks. "Oh!" comes the initial exclamation and then, peering at the place where the rushing river disappears and sniffing the air, the newcomer remarks in bemusement, "It does not seem weather for travel, cousin."
[Dorn(#13467)]
"He does not waddle! Does he?" Trailing behind only slightly deaf dwarven warrior whose weight it is that is the topic of discussion, is a young dwarf, looking ever so slightly disheveled seeing as he's not on duty this morning. In fact, it is entirely possible that him and his friend, a fully armored and hic... ready to go gate guard, have JUST exited the pub. And he's only slightly late for his watch by the door. It's not like the other dwarf doesn't have the key! Life won't stop just because one dwarf was drunkenly held back by his friend to do a drinking game called: Guess The Colour of Underpants of That Dwarf.
The right answer in most cases seemed to be: What pants?
Chuckling, Dorn stops and straightens his friend's helmet that is just a tad crooked, turning him around and sending him toward the guard he is supposed to be relieving. But of course, his curiousity is piqued as he finds the front of the gate a little occupied by some small gathering. Clutching a nearly empty flagon, the young Warder approaches, his eyebrows raising at the annoyed sounds. "Ech, don't worry. Dalor's here now! He can open the gates... Unless we... er, he lost the key." Turning to his silent buddy, Dorn slaps the fellow on the back, to which he responds to falling flat on his face. Ooops.
[Danir(#28691)]
Turning toward the newly arrived dwarf, Danir comments to him with a bit of the bark she possibly intended for the guard. "Weather has no bearing on trade, cousin. The wheels of my wagon have gone through heavier snow than this, have gone over thin, rutted mountain passes that seemed almost impossible to climb." Motioning her hook toward the river, she adds, "Were the river frozen, not flowing, it wouldn't give me reason to delay my trip." Turning away from the yet un-named Bardur toward the guard, Danir continues:
"In all my days of merchanting, I ain't never missed a meeting. Not even when I had to stop to kill orcs and trolls on the way." Her voice crescendos again. "And now you mean to ..." as she's speaking, the gate is approached again, and this time by two more un-named dwarves, both of whom seem to be seriously intoxicated. She's heard just enough of the newcomer's words to stare incredulously at the guard. "You entrust the key to ... to ..." she eyes Dorn up and down with disdain. "To hobbits?"
At Danir's words to him the black-bearded dwarf perhaps betrays his youth, for his eyes light up as he exclaims, "There sounds a journey with a few untold tales within! Should you find reason to .. delay ..." he glances blankly at the Warder on duty, but stony faces reveal little and hastily he ploughs on, "that is, if you've a few moments to spare while the gates are oiled, I'd be glad to buy the ale to wet your throat. Bard-"
Any greeting is cut off as talk of orcs and trolls turns to mention of hobbits. Looking quite bewildered, he spins round to see this wondrous sight (who let a hobbit into the Mountain? Why didn't he hear the gossip about it?)
[Dorn(#13467)]
Some day poor Dalor would appreciate the 'help' his friend has given him but at this moment, Dorn is but damaging everything the other has worked for, by leaning down and searching his pockets. Turning him over, the young warrior tries to find the desired gate key that has caused all that fuss. Slowly, a line is beginning to gather, of irritated dwarves - some wanting to get outside, others just showing their disdain at the shape of the gate guard 'replacement'.
Finally fishing the key from the passed out friend's shield where he has attached it, Dorn stumbles up, holding out the key with a cheerful expression:"See? No problems at all!" At the traveling party - an old one with a hook hand and the other -, he merely shrugs but then the meaning behind these mean words begins to sink in.
"You take that back!" he insists, tossing his flagon onto the ground and taking a step forward. "I am a lot more of a dwarf than you are, you... you...," try as he might, all his mind can come up with insult-wise is a meager "wench!"
[Danir(#28691)]
And in that moment, rather than fuming and fussing even louder, Danir tosses back her head and barks a loud laugh. Her upper body shakes with such hearty laughter that she's forced to place her hand on her stomach just to keep her beard from flopping around. After what had to have been an hour or two of hard laughing, Danir wipes a few tears from the corners of her eyes and straightens. Looking back at Bardur, whose name she still doesn't know, and struggles to maintain a straight face as she comments to him:
"A beard and a body like that and he thinks he's a dwarf? I'd say his papa was a hobbit and his momma didn't want to say so."
Looking back at the hobbit, she offers him a smirk. "Aye, you're so much more a dwarf than I am. You can't even grow a beard. What kind of dwarf can't grow a beard? And how many trolls have you killed, hmm? How many orcs even?"
Bardur's first instinct on seeing Dorn is to reach for his own glossy black beard as though to check it's still there. He strokes it for reassurance.
The exchange of insults is registered with mild interest Danir's words bring a rumble of laughter but then he murmurs, "Cousin, with all due respect, I am not sure those words will win the key." Which means ... what? Fight overdue? He steps back to allow the would-be combatants room, patting his belt pouch as though checking if he has enough coin for a wager on one party.
[Dorn(#13467)]
No matter how many times he's heard it, it still stings! No matter how hard he may have tried, it's no use. Still angered by it, Dorn is rendered quite speechless at the amount of abuse laid on him and he was just being helpful what with getting the key and everything! "My mo--," he starts and then stops as he stares at the old dwarf with a baffled look. "Oh, you ARE a wench! Well, I be damned..." Once again, words fail him like they often do and he shakes his head gruffly. You can't be mad at women, they're probably just... well, whatever it is that makes them always so foul toward all the males.
"Why can't I ever meet -nice- women?" he half-turns and asks nobody in specific though his eyes stop on Bardur for a moment, with his glossy black beard. Is that envy in his eyes? Well, if Dorn could grow a proper glossy sandy beard, would he be standing here getting mocked by a woman with one arm? It might be the alcohol dimming his emotions or it might be the respect built into every young dwarf toward the women of dwarf race but instead of charging at the old bat, he waves his hand dismissively:"I've killed plenty orcs, I have you know. No trolls though." Credit where it's true. Be what he might but Dorn is not one to lie. Boast, sure! "Horde of orcs and a few spiders!" So what the spiders were the tiny ones he could step on...
[Danir(#28691)]
"No disrespect to you or yours, lad," Danir says quietly, almost politely to Bardur, "But the key should not need to be won. The gate," she adds, looking up at the sky, "should have been open before dawn and it's now mid-morning. I'll be late for my appointment," she grumps.
Her lips twitch just slightly when she overhears Dorn's question that might as well been to himself as anyone else. "Aye, I am a wench, how good of you to notice. You'd meet plenty of nice women if you went to the Shire, lad. 'course, you'd have to worry about them being related, wouldn't you?" Her eyes roam up and down the beardlings frame before she points out, "Killing an orc ain't much of nothing really. But you say you killed some spiders, eh?" She appraises him carefully before commenting, "You can't be more than 60 or 70, lad. Your momma's let you out to kill spiders, has she? You wouldn't be meaning ones you can squish with your thumb, would you?"
Bardur's patting of his belt pouch stops and he extracts a sharpened stick of charcoal and a small roll of vellum. His blue eyes brighten immediately. Danir's talk is greeted by an absent nod - no help here - as he moves to a place where an angle in the precisely hewn rock wall forms a little shelf. Leaning his vellum on it, he begins to scribble, humming softly under his breath. Were one to listen carefully (but of course, who would do that?), they might hear the following little ditty emerge:
"A Dwarf, it's said, has blessings three:
Stout strength of arm for all to see
A cunning crafter's mind within
And bounteous beard upon his chin.
"Yet spare a thought for cruel fate,
Who taunts beside a lock-ed gate ...
The humming breaks off.
"No, no, that really won't do!"
[Dorn(#13467)]
What a disgrace! A guard drunk on duty and a youngster arguing with a lady dwarf over whether or not he's killed any orcs or not. An impatient traveler coughs nervously from behind Dorn and he only now seems to remember the key which he hands to the gate guard who has lost his.
"Some orcs are bigger than others," says Dorn with a frown as he listens to the old one, choosing to ignore her snide comments about his possible hobbit ancestry. "Of course it's a bit of something," is added and he leans down to pick up his now sadly empty flagon.
"L-lady, you are a mean bat," he points at Danir and sighs. "I am muuuch older than seventy... hic!" With a little curiousity toward the scribbling skald, and all things considered, the young Warden then seems to realize that this scene does not bode too well for him, let alone his passed out buddy Dalor. As the gates are opened, he waves the crowd toward the opening and glances about. No superiors about just yet. He might make his escape still! What was the woman saying again? "Oh spiders!" he blurted out with a slightly awkward smile. Can't lie, can't tell the truth, what to do? What to do? Pointing a finger at Darnir, he finally resolves to saying:"Your momma..."
[Danir(#28691)]
"No, it really won't do," Danir agrees. "I like that first bit, but your rhythm is off on the second and it doesn't really tie into the first part, but keep trying," she says encouragingly, though her tone and manner are still rather gruff.
With the gates now opening, she's slightly less annoyed when she responds again to Dorn. "Aye, my momma died when orcs raided our camp when I was a lass of 20. What were you going to say about her?" she asks, pushing the hook of her left arm toward him. "Now, if you lost your beard in battle - and I've seen some that have - you'd be respected, but lad, looking like that ... you'd be better off shearing a sheep and sewing it to yer face."
Bardur nods despondently at Danir's words to him. "Lets see ... fare, hair, bare ..." He sighs, squints and tries again:
"Yet some Dwarves do not fare so well,
In shape to wear or tale to tell
Take comfort, those whose beard is thin,
The greatest blessing lies within!"
Bardur beams in satisfied fashion, stops scribbling and lets the vellum roll up again.
But then his gaze as he glances about the rapidly emptying hall falls on Dorn waving his empty ale-mug. Solemnly he intones,
"If you lack in facial hair,
Take heart my friend: do not despair,
But drink up deep and head home quick
Before that friend of yours is sick!"
How's poor old Dalor doing? Could he really be ...?
[Dorn(#13467)]
Taken aback a little by the flow of confusing and somewhat sad information coming from the old lady, Dorn steps back. He's got so much to live for, beard or no, why waste it by insulting a woman of all things? And a hook in his gut doesn't sound like a comfortable thing either, no sir! "... musta been so proud of you," he finishes at last and nods. That was pretty suave, if he says so himself! "Look, missus, I don't know why you be picking on me, I didn't lose the bloody key!" The verse is greeted with a blank stare from the Warder as he considers the words and as the last line is heard, peers toward his unconcious friend. But on the other hand, from somewhere not far, the clank of heavy footsteps of several soldiers is echoing. Oh dear, that has to be some officer or another! But how would one abandon a friend? The dilemma is slowly worked through as he decides to face the music and heads to Dalor, prodding and poking and finally, propping him up. With great effort, too! The gate guard, realizing full well, Dalor won't be a dutiful guard today, mutters a crisp curse.
"Come on, Dalor, open your eyes. You gonna get me in trouble!" demands Dorn as he slaps the fellow harshly. Should have stayed at the pub, he should...
[Danir(#28691)]
"Those whose beards are thin," Danir calls quietly over to Bardur, correcting him as gently as she can manage. "And I don't disagree with you either cousin. A dwarf's greatest blessing lies within his ability to kill orcs and trolls," she says, misunderstanding what he'd truly meant with those words. Turning her attention back to Dorn, she speaks:
"You think people ain't said mean things to me ever since that troll got my arm?" She waves her hook again, and perhaps that's why she was waving it before. "People have said as I ain't a real dwarf because my fighting arm was chewed off, but I learned how to fight with my other arm and had a special shield made for this other one." She watches the prodding and poking of Dalor but doesn't seem too inclined to lean in and help him. "And if you can't take a friendly jibe or two about the fact you look like a hobbit, then you probably ain't cut out for much more than doling out drinks in the tavern."
Bardur watches Dorn curiously for the effects of his words. "He really doesn't look so lively," he comments worriedly. "I think you should move him."
Danir's correction has him tugging on his own beard thoughtfully for a moment. "Dear me, you're quite right!" he exclaims. "I'll correct that right now - or no, perhaps it does need a little polishing before I present it at the Longbeard tavern. Safe journey, cousin - and to you, cousin," he's looking to Dorn now, "my thanks for providing inspiration." He bows and wanders off, quite oblivious to any insult he's just given.
[Dorn(#13467)]
"It's not my beard that does the killing, anyway," Dorn mutters in addition to the discussion about who is and who isn't a real dwarf and how to become one. "Well, if it makes you feel any better," and he doubts it does the slightest, "that hook is probably a darn good thing to use... on orcs." All this is said as he continues his attempts at waking up Dalor but soon enough, it is too late. The Skald is regarded seriously for a brief moment. "Longbeard eh? I'll have to come and hear it then. Until then!"
News of this disturbance has reached the rest of the guards and now there are more than enough to hold the damned gate from a goblin army! As for the two unfortunate drunkards... well, they probably would be reprimanded harshly but since the key was found and the dwarf DID show up for his shift - though he passed out almost immediately -, the lad is given another chance. And Dorn, he was just supporting his buddy! Honest, Captain!
Players: Danir, Dorn, Bardur
Located in: Erebor
