A new gate
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As morning comes, an old bald dwarf wakes up from his deserved night sleep. After his morning prayers and washing his face, he starts his daily chores around the dwarven hold. An extra hour of praying in the Temple, a stop by the under gate to greet the defenders and farmers down there.
His usual work by the dwarven crafting hall, where he spends almost all his time sharpening his axe and shining his armor. Polite conversation is held with the Masters and other crafters there, mainly about how it is Gorm’s will that granted dwarves their natural ability towards craftsmanship. Their weapons and shields are to be used to protect kin all around.
Hours later, once he’s satisfied with his work, he heads out, south. He greets politely the lumberjack and shopkeepers around town, asking about business and participating in all sorts of small talk. Just before walking to the grapevine, he launches a last glance to his surroundings, as if trying to absorb all that is there…. His eyes close for a brief moment, a deep breath, and he continues his way.
Reaching the grapevine, he asks for his usual: ale, in a LARGE mug. But, instead of downing it quickly, he sips through it quietly, watching activity inside the inn. Waitresses, cooks, barkeeper, all of them are at least once, watched closely, the old dwarf finishes his ale, pays and leaves… a hint of a smile across his face.
He stands a long time outside the Union Hall, place where he spends most of his days. His mind working as never, going through all the memories of times, people, jokes, laugh and work. He doesn’t enter the building. Turning towards the south, he walks…. No, he marches down the road. This day of contemplation almost ending, daylight almost dying, just one last thing to do. And south he goes.
Arriving at the gates, or where the gates should be, the desolated sight strikes him. Not that this veteran hasn’t seen this scene before over his time, but there’s something new. Methodically, he assembles his armor piece by piece: boots, chest plate, belt, gauntlets… everything. And everything is as shiny as ever. His shield is once more strapped to his left arm, his axe is firmly griped by his right hand.
During his last look north, before placing his helmet onto his head, a quiet whisper can be heard:
-Tis fer yas, kin.
For a few minutes, a silent pray as all the dwarf’s wards as casted. And now, the empty space where gates should be has a dwarf instead, and he certainly won’t go down as easy as a wooden gate