A weary looking dwarf.
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- A wearing looking dwarf leans on the doorway of his shop, casually wiping his hands with a rag. He tucks the dirty rag into the belt holding his leather metal working apron around his waist, and leans casually on the door frame.
His cousin Nor quietly offers him a dark ale, which he takes with a forced smile.
Like his apron, his eyes look faded as if the color has left them over time. Or maybe its everything he has seen over the years.
He sips the ale, and looks at the bottle. Just like the first time it was offered by his father when he was just a young dwarf banging a hammer randomly at the large anvil, putting his mark on it through the countless hammer marks.
That feeling of a cold, dark ale after working an anvil and forge. Brings life back into a throat parched by the heat and dust. Brings back the feeling of life.
Staring out into the empty streets he wonders if Peltarch could use some ale, its streets empty, except for the merchants who come back every day to show their wares. But to who?
The dwaf has offered them food and ale, and whatever they ask for. His door is open.
He doesn't do it for charity, to "appease" his soul, or to counter the perceptions of his character. He does it for the company, as customers are rare of late, and visitors almost extinct.
He swigs his ale and leans on the doorway, with a far away stare. Between swigs he appears to age considerably, the ale bringing back a bit of the life into his eyes.
But a bottle can only hold so much, and the bottle runs dry. As he turns to order his cousin to fetch another, he sees his armor on its stand in his office. A gift from long ago.
His posture straightens as he takes a deep breath and the sight and memory the armor invokes, seem to reinvigorate him. But then his cousin, blocks its view as he walks out of the office holding an ale.
Once again the dwarf ages and he turns back to look out towards the west gate. *
[D] Nor, get me a farkin ale…...now