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Beorn Battlemail, rarely coming up from the Hold nowdays, tries to enjoy his favorite dish of spicy batwings, but a conversation catches his attention. He downs whats left in his mug and hops off his stool to speak up. His voice is harsh and thick with accent.
"That was me own order ye filled, Not Z's. If the surface lovin' dwarf wants his armor slapped together by sum short lived human instead o' proper dwarven quality armor, thas his choice, but oi won't have ye spittin' on me reputation as an armor crafter in these parts, ye rude, surly little git. Who the hell 'er ye anyways? Oi been fillin' orders in the Cold Lands fer many years, anyone'll tell ye that no armor can match o' Battlemail set.
Its true that Silver waited too long fer me teh craft his armor. Moradin knows oi don't like teh keep o' kin waitin' on their glory. Oi aint gonna stand 'ere an give excuses, but it wasn't me choice that the armor took so long teh craft. If ye made o' deal wit the dwarf teh craft his armor, good on ye. But don't ye drag me name 'er the Union's through the mud o'er one single order oi didn't prioritize enough."
Beorn narrows his eyes up at the man and clenches his fist, ready to cut short any tongue wagging he doesn't like in a typical Dwarven fashion.