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Of beards and blades

Tags: Brev,  Dorn

Short Summary: Man and Dwarf exchange a few words by the Lake shore in the quiet of the evening.
Date (real-life): 2013-03-09
Scene Location: Lakeside Road (Dale-lands)
Date (in-game): May 3058
Time of Day: Evening/night
Lake-side Road
The Long Lake runs about 20 miles between where the Forest River enters it and the lake's southern end, where it flows over a tall cliff and the River Running begins again. The road is wide and well-maintained, running near the western shore of the lake for most of the way. The lands are mostly given over to farming, with the estate of one noble or another scattered here and there, many built on the lake shore itself, with private docks. At one point, about 5 miles south of the forest river crossing, a road branches out towards Mirkwood.
 Not far north from the river's crossing there is a narrow path that also leads into the Mirkwood, only upon walking along it, it soon fades into the rest of whatever covers the dirt and the edge of the forest does not seem welcoming.
Obvious exits:
 West leads to Eastern Edge of Mirkwood.
 North leads to Hillside.
 East leads to Londaroth.
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Sat Mar 09 15:26:53 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Highday, late night on a clear spring's night, May 19 of 3058
Night has fallen and the shores of the Long Lake are dotted with pinpricks of light, akin to a hundred fireflies. Move closer and one would identify them as fires, for the camps of Men and Dwarves are strung out along the roadside. Another day or two will see them approaching Esgaroth, but for tonight 'home' lies in the neat, regular rows of tents occupied by the Kings Men and the circles of Dwarven wagons.
At the outskirts of the human camp, movement. Many have already sought their bedrolls but Brev is not amongst their number. Rather the man has wandered down to the water's edge and crouches stiffly to scoop up a palmful of water that is splashed across his grimy face. A sour mutter follows, then there is the snick of a dagger or knife being drawn from its sheath.
Sometimes, a dwarf is indeed the best person to have watching your back. What with their tank-like qualities and strong arm and all that... Well, it's not commonly known but there are some who also kind of sneaky. Not in the way a hobbit or an elf would be but enough to keep an ambush from happening at the very least!
Dorn Greyhand is one such dwarf - he has scouted and sneaked, he's been ever-watchful and dutifully, even fiercely fought against everything that has come across him and shown some animosity. Well, now it is time for peace and quiet, a night unlike many spent in fear of a sudden orc attack. He has seen the Uruk group leave away from their camps, with his own eyes, after all! But it doesn't mean Dorn gets off and goes back to his cheerful ways. Well, maybe he will once he is back at the Lonely Mountain but for the time being, the scout-Warder of Erebor remains vigilant.
Seated on a rock not far from where the human is cleaning his face, the dwarf seems to be carving something out of a wood even though it's kind of dark. Between the two of us, it wouldn't be any better-looking or functional if it was light... Having watched the man for a while in silence, Dorn finally sets aside his knife and whatever atrocity he is crafting and slides off the rock, making sure to be noisy enough not to freak the human out.
"You alright?"
Perhaps the sudden noise fails in its purpose: Brev tries to pivot from his crouched position, clearly startled, but the motion is jerky and draws another guttural muttering with the ring of an oath to it though it's not in the Common speech. For a moment a slender knife-blade is pointed at the Dwarf - reflex likely - and then the man's eyes resolve the squat shape seen in the half-light and his brain supplies an identification.
"Good evening, Master Dwarf." The lilting common sounds faintly amused. "No assistance required. Doubt your kind go in much for shaving." Well, fine, it's /very/ bad light. "If you were after a swim, don't let me stop you," he offers gallantly, straightening up to a standing position.
Why is it always about beards whatever he does? Well, possibly because he doesn't have one and dwarves usually do? With a grumble, the scout takes a few steps forward and comments drily:"Not all of us are quite that blessed with these things." His leather gloved hand points at the human's chin and then rubs his own jawline with a regretful sigh. "But eh, no. I ain't going for a swim. The water's too cold and I had a bath not two sevendays ago!" Of course, the rain pouring down at them at some days as they travel, is a welcome addition to such an official thing. As always, Dorn has an uncanny luck with not having gotten hurt on the field of battle. Even though he has most definitely been on it! It doesn't mean he isn't sympathetic to whoever has been hurt. "I'll uh... watch your back. Who knows when those pesky fishies jump at you while you're... uh, doing that thing?" So is that what it's called? Shaving? It isn't something a dwarf does willingly and very often but Dorn knows a couple of things about.
"Huh?" is Brev's highly-tuned response to those first words. He slides his knife back into its sheath for now, blinks a few times, steps closer and peers down ... then comprehension dawns, for both brows arch up. "Kiern!" he mutters, shaking his head, then tries to cover it with ramblings. "Happened in battle, eh? You're likely better off without it, damn things itch anyway." Such sympathy!
The next words bring a slightly embarrassed grunt. "That's ... all right. Figure my back's been the subject of enough attention of late, thank you. Haven't figured out how I'm goint to explain that one." His lips twitch wryly for a moment. "What about you, the goblins didn't lop any limbs off?" He surveys the seemingly hale and hearty Dorn with perhaps a touch of envy.
"A few scratches, is all I got," Dorn replies maybe with a little reluctance. It's only the hope that his superiors have witnessed his actions that he can hope for because besides that, he has nothing. But isn't it a good thing that he hasn't been wounded? The caravan is full of ailing dwarves, after all?! And if there are any other folk trying to take advantage of their moment of relative weakness - because dwarves are surely NEVER weak! -, Dorn would be able to push them back! Bandits or huge spiders or... well, maybe not the spiders. There's something about the way they skittle... Ugh!
"Someone stabbed you in the back?" he asks with equal sensitivity as he checks the human out. Maybe they always look like that?! "That's not really your fault, is it?"
"Guess you won't be needing them looked at, then." Brev sounds almost disappointed. "Pity - though I admit my methods are perhaps a bit different." He clears his throat. "That fellow with the arrows in - Ambassador, I think they called him - he's all right, isn't he?" For one fleeting moment there's a shade of guilt in his eyes.
But then it's gone. "Stabbed isn't quite the word for it," he mutters. "How do you stab someone with a bloody battle-axe?" Disgust wars with amusement - and yes, he does indeed look down to see whether Dorn's carrying an axe. It /is/ a typical Dwarven stereotype.
"Easily if you're quick enough, apparently," Dorn responds with a smug smirk but doesn't add anything. "The ambassador is alive, at least the last I heard," he adds to the conversation, returning to his rock and picking up the piece of wood again. "I kind of like swords. Easier to stab people with it," he continues on a conversational tone but stops after this, peering at the human curiously. "We're hardy folk, made from stone some say. I'm sure Neleth will come out to be grumpy another hundred years." A touch of comfort there for the human fellow, for whatever reason he has to feel guilty about anything. Not like anyone but the orcs can be blamed for their losses and wounds!
Dorn's comforting words are not misplaced. Brev snorts softly and mutters after the words about a hundred years, "We should all be so lucky," but he's clearly relieved. The words about the sword bring an arched brow. "I prefer daggers myself, if stabbing's required. Which it isn't, tonight," he adds pointedly, one corner of his mouth twitching.
The wood is eyed with veiled curiosity. "What's that you've got there?"
"If I brought back daggers as my main weapon, I think my Captain would laugh himself to death," Dorn snorts as he begins chipping away at the piece of wood. It kind of looks like a block but it isn't as he seems dead set on making it rounder. Dwarves aren't known for their woodwork, however. "Well, I uh... I wanted to make a whistle but I don't think I'm doing that great a job at it," he then admits, peering at the human in the dying light. "I don't know how to get the shape and what's worse, how to get the hole in it!" He might just be better off buying a whistle when they next swung by human settlement. THEY seem to be great with wood!
Brev doesn't actually laugh - he's not in full health, surely it's only natural that he's afflicted by a sudden bout of coughing. He takes a moment to get his breath, then tells the Dwarf, "You'll never get the insides smooth without a reamer." A pause, then he offers politely, "Little trick. If you start with a straight branch-end with pithy innards, most of the work's done for you. And for the cut, you need to angle it -so-," he demonstrates with a hand, having put his knife away. "Figure I could show you sometime. Not now, though. If you'll excuse me, Master Dwarf, I've other things to attend to."
He inclines his head and prepares to leave (still, it must be said, horribly unshaven).
Every now and then, Dorn listens, actually listens to whatever is being told. And this time seems to be one such time. "Reamer... right," he says without much enthusiasm, then because quite frankly, he has no idea if it's a tool or a person! Why must cutting something out of a piece of wood be so complicated anyway? But as the human promises to give him some advice on the matter, Dorn brightens up. "That would be great," he mutters with an awkward smile and then stands again to see the fellow off. "Hope you get better!" he wishes the human a good night and good whatever time he needs to be well again. Then, he goes back to trying to figure out if maybe this 'reamer' thing is something he already has, naturally. Like a nose or... a finger!

Date added: 2013-03-10 04:37:58    Hits: 75
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