Here we go!

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

Dvalinn. In all actuality he was Dvalinn the Third, Dvalinn the Third Smiths'son. Just today he had taken on him the name Brandrslá, blade forger, as it was his chosen profession and his chosen war. Of course, his father was blacksmith, but then again, Dvalinn could have chosen to be warrior instead. His father often put it like this. "You are a mountain, and the fire is your heart. A warrior is like the volcano, when he lets out his fire it destroys all in his path. All dwarves know a smith is the same. He puts his fire into the axe or the sword, and that blade then becomes a true weapon."

Dvalinn was mighty proud of the dwarven master craftsmen tradition, and it was no wonder to him that dwarves had earned that reputation. After all, they were smarter, stronger, and even better looking than any other race. Excepting perhaps the gods. Dvalinn intended to follow that tradition, to follow in the tradition of his legendary forbearers. To craft weapons and armor of such might and splendor... but then again. There was a time for all things. "Every tunnel has an entrance", or so the saying went. And now was a time for learning.

Dvalinn, having grown up with his father, knew a thing or two about smithing but now that he was finally 95, it was time for him to go take on an apprenticeship. His father was a mighty fine skilled smith but the encampment in which they lived lacked a great many facilities. After the siege of Zerdargia, the group wanting to resettle Dargis had been forced into the surrounding mountainous areas. Dvallin needed first to expand his horizons, which required leaving the place he had come to call home.

And so, he was off. Off to the big wide world. Although why anyone would want a world that was as wide-open as all that lay beyond the mountain Dvalinn could only guess. Forests were only good for lumber, and wideness only for your belly and strength and the size of your castle and coffers. The sky was too far and too often involved falling back down again, whereas the sea was like a gaping wide (there is the word again, he cringed) emptiness waiting to swallow you. It had no substance. No fortitude. No endurance. No will to stand. The mountains had stood for ages and so would the dwarves. That was how it should be.

Dvalinn's mother and father did not cry as he left, for they knew, that even as a true two-edged battle axe never lost it's edge, so would their mutual love and loyalty never fade. Besides, he was going off to learn and grow in strength and wisdom. And that was enough.

The cool crisp air was not quite as enjoyable as the warm musty air of caves but it was doable. Besides, the further he descended down from the encampment entrance, the better the view of the mountain's profile he got. He had seen it many a time, likely as many as an elf blushed as it looked at it's vanity in the mirror, but every time it awed him. Inspired him.

And so he went, marching down to Zerdargia, to see if any staying there had heard tell of any skilled smiths looking to take on a new apprentice.

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

Timestamp: First Day of Cryxatum, in the Season of Summer, Era II of the Celestine Mandate, Era XIV Post Fractum, the Second Era of the Regency of Milo L'Evienne

OOC: Spiffy, my very own timestamp!

Dvalinn strode confidently down the mountain slope and breathed deeply. The air was not the best but Dvalinn, having seen war firsthand, knew life was a wonderful thing and quite thoroughly enjoyed the fact that he was still breathing. Not that death was so bad either. But if you had to die, better later than sooner. And better that your enemies died first.

Dvalinn looked up at the sky, and mumbled under his breath.

"So much wasted space. Why, do they even have the slightest clue how many deep mines and forges and battlefields could fit up there?"

"Bat rubbish," he sighed. He strongly doubted any of the flatlanders down in the valley would share his sentiment. He would go anywhere to learn to blacksmith, to polish the trade to perfection, but it certainly couldn't do him any harm to find a nice snug place in a mountain somewhere. Heck, even Zerdargia might have a suitable place. But whichever forge he went he was confident he could get in. He already had a head-start, his father being a smith and all. Not only that, he was a dwarf! Everyone should know that dwarves make the best smiths!

The grass, rocks, and occasional flowers made no difference to Dvalinn's path down the mountain. He simply went straight. He supposed that was the fastest way down. Not his fault if the flowers in his wake were a little flatter...

"Hmmph," he grunted.

[Lichen]

Aimless meandering. A odd decision at best, and a foolish one in the wilds of Centripax. Vysstichi, pitfalls, bandits, and many, many other plagues ravaged the province, so much of which was unexplored and unmaintained by the empire. While there was beauty in its wildness, the Administrate of Centripax was also extremely dangerous, especially for the untrained and disoriented.

And Davlinn certainly fit both those descriptions. Untested in war or craft, guided by nothing but hope and blinded by the sun - his eyes not yet adjusted - Davlinn could not possibly comprehend what a tasty snack he appeared to be. He walked on, unconcerned, crushing flowers and kicking pebbles in his path, heading towards the forest below him. He made much ruckus and generally announced his presence to anything within a 10 mile radius, his experiences in the civilized underground leaving him unprepared for the dangers above.

He was half way down the mountain when he saw her, curled up naked beneath a huckleberry bush. Slight, young, her body covered in fading bruises and scrapes, the girl lay a mere 20 feet from him, so deeply asleep that his commotion did not awaken her. Her skin was a dusty brown, though whether from sunlight or actual dust he could not tell, and her hair was the color of moist clay, and fell in long waves. Her chest moved up and down slowly as she breathed, as unaware of her surroundings as Davlinn himself.

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

OOC: I'm assuming she's human?

"Un?" Dvalinn grunted as he spotted the girl sleeping and halted abruptly.

"Dratmuffin, these people are stranger than I thought."

Why she was lying there of all places in such a state, Dvalinn hadn't the slightest clue. Then again, he didn't know how she had gotten hurt either. In either case, she likely wasn't some demon beast clothed in flesh. In which case, he had better help her. Dwarf's honour of course. But she was sleeping and likely tired...

"Confound it. My first day off and already fate is trying to stall me." Dvalinn glared menacingly at nothing in particular, the grumbling side of his Dwarven nature coming out quite markedly.

He couldn't just up and leave and he dared not wake her, so he plomped himself down on a nearby rock (he made sure to look at and note the minerals in it, you never knew when that might come in handy...) and pulled out the small dagger in his posession.

Only a small dagger... a pathetic choice, he knew, a war axe or such would have been much better. But he had decided to take only that which he himself owned, taking no gifts. Of course, there was certainly a time for taking gifts. Even the richest kings and mightiest warriors did the same. That was a part of bonding, friendship, and loyalty. But this was Dvalinn's start, his beginning. Now, however, considering the girl's plight, it probably would have been better to take the gifts his relatives had proferred...

"Crikey!" he groaned... then realized he might wake the girl.

"Crikey!" he groaned again for good measure but this time much more quietly.

Dvalinn scanned the surrounding area, looking for spots of ambush, or strange things, or good places to defend from... if only the area wasn't quite so... open... where was a good cave entrance or narrow mountain pass when you needed one?

Dvalinn practiced a little with the dagger while sitting down. They weren't his specialty, heck, they weren't any dwarf's specialty, but a blade was a blade was a blade and it still cut things. Smaller... things... he admitted, but still!

"Who invented daggers anyway?" he mumbled. After considering this self-imposed dilemna, he decided "I figure it was either elves or halflings. Or some sort of shadow spawn." After a little more thought, he concluded that it was most likely a council of all three who got together to try and create the most ineffective weapon possible. Even rocks could be more effective.

Dvalinn realized he should probably try to do something to help the poor girl. But then again, being a dwarf, he knew nothing of herbs and whatnot. So, since she seemed to be breathing steadily, he simply let her be.

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

Dvalinn sat and continued to slowly move the dagger around in what could have been a mock battle, if there had been an opponent. He looked at the rocks and dirt around him, trying to notice anything he recognized. Tried to ignore the chirping and calls of various birds. But mostly, he sat. Dwarves are very good for sitting, the old joke went, both for sitting on things and for being sat on. Dvalinn chuckled. He laughed easily. Easily amused. Amused but not bemused. "Hey, that rhymes..." Dvalinn marveled. He sure didn't expect himself to ever come up with anything so poetic, though he lived to be 800!

"Amused but not bemused..." his fascination with the phrase certainly seemed to underline it's veracity.

He glanced over at the girl, not to make sure she had left or been snatched, he would have seen that, but... he shrugged. What was she doing out here anyway? Dwarves aren't famous for their curiosity about much else besides earth, fire, work, battle, and crafting... and family and honour of course. But golly gee, who couldn't help but be curious?

Luckily for Dvalinn, he had made sure to leave early in the day and she was sure to wake before noon, at latest, he reasoned... if she didn't waken, then what? Well, he figured he'd figure something if it came to that. Something'or'other.

[Lichen]

Daevlinn’s mumbling was not exactly quiet, and as he grew increasingly chatty, the girl shifted slightly in her sleep and then her eyes flew open and she leapt to her feet, hair flying freely as she moved. And screamed, of course, the second she realized she was being watched by a Dwarf who was both talking to himself and holding a knife. She screamed for a good five seconds, loud and sharp, and it was like being smacked upside the head by a nail-embedded board. Repeatedly.

When she stopped, it was because she shoved her own hands over her mouth, eyes almost comically wide. Tiny, pointed ears peak out from her ground-length brown hair, and they appear just as startled as the rest of her. ”You! You… stay away from me!” she said finally, leaping up upon a rock, waving a finger at him to force home her point. Her voice was as tiny as the rest of her, for though Daevlinn had not noticed it before (being much wearied from his travel, blinded by light, lacking good depth perception, and being a man of mediocre height himself) she was no more than three feet tall. And tiny in structure as well as size – her face wide yet fine boned and fragile, her hips too slip for any child to pass by.

He had never seen anything like her. Dwarven women were, by and far, larger both in height and girth, and with an excess of body hair, which she seemed to be lacking entirely. Hobbits, too, were wider - this was a mere slip of a girl, too thin to be any common race.

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

"Ouch," he said, rather matter-of-factly. And then he just kind of sat there in agony for five seconds. As soon as she stopped screaming he quickly put the dagger away. Deciding that the gods of death and pain must have also had a hand in designing the confounded thing.

Dvalinn also stood up, realized it was likely a bad idea, and promptly sat down again.

The girl was not very imposing, as far as physical danger went, but he did find himself very worried that she might become rash in some other manner. Like fall off the rock backwards and hurt herself or something. It sure didn't look like she would be able to survive it, being so tiny.

Not being the greatest conversationalist in the world (an understatement of course) Dvalinn Branderslá had a brilliant idea pop up into his head.

"Hello?" he queried apprehensively.

Just as unsure as he had been when he first saw the girl, he waited for her to make the next move. Or say something. He studied her finger, maybe she was going to try and poke his eye out or... who knows?

OOC: Sorry for taking awhile, I've been distracted by a certain somebody lately...

[Lichen]

”Hello?” she repeated, her tiny eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline. ”What? That’s… oh! Oh you’re one of those,” she said, nodding wisely. Since she was the size of a five-year-old, wisdom was perhaps a strange look for her. ”One of those… crazy people. My sisters told me all about your type,” she said, accompanying the strangely accusatory statement with a pointed finger.

She opened her mouth quite wide then – were Dvalinn a little closer he could most assuredly see her uvula, were he interested in such things – and spoke in a loud, over-enunciated voice most commonly associated with condescension: ”DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE RIGHT NOW?”

OOC: No worries, been a bit busy meself!

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

Dvalinn briefly closed his eyes, as if afraid she would bop him on the head somehow. If an orc had come at him with a cutlass or saber he wouldn't have flinched a muscle but for some reason this little creature...

"Of course I know where I am," he replied with great confidence. "I am here!" Dvalinn then proceeded to nod with at least as much sagacity as she had. Though wisdom would be an even stranger look for him, not because of his appearance but because of the comment he had just made.

He stood up, to emphasize the point of where he was and looked around just to make sure. Yes, he most definitely was, here.

"And I am going that way." he added, pointing down the slope in the direction he had been headed.

Dvalinn fingered his beard in deep thought.

[Lichen]

The girl did not seem impressed by his announcement. ”I am here? That’s not an answer!" He could practically see the epiphany as it happened, however, as her whole persona shifted, eyebrows flying up and eyes going wide open. "Oh, you poor thing, you don’t even know where you are, do you?” Her frown softened slightly, giving way to the look all females seemed to reserve for puppies and other small, furry, and/or pathetic creatures. ”You want to go down the hill? Now, I don’t know if that’s such a wonderful idea. There are lots of dangerous creatures down there, you have to be very careful. That’s ok, though, because I’ll take care of you!”

And with that, the little woman hopped off the rock, wariness completely evaporated in the face of a potentially helpless creature. ”Why are you going down there?” she asked as she walked – or, more accurately, skipped.

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

Lots of dangerous creatures? Now that was certainly a strange comment, considering that this particular small creature was sleeping naked out in the open.

"Bilgeweed," he half-muttered half-thought.

But regardless, if the girl was sufficiently impressed by his obvious strength and prowess to feel honored to escort him down the mountain, who was he to argue?

"Very well," smiling his best Dwarven smile, "Lead the way fair lady!"

Dwarven gentility wasn't exactly world-renown but it wasn't due to lack of effort on Dvalinn's part. Why, Dwarven gentility might not be famous but surely the flatlanders had not forgotten Dwarven hospitality, the great feasts in the guilds halls and the...

Dvalinn continued this train of thought as he clonkered on down the hill following the little woman as she skipped along. Eventually, he began humming an ancient Dwarven marching song...

"Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, it's off to work we go..."

Now, it is important to note, that while no dwarf's voice could be considered melodic, Dvalinn's was among the better half as far as Dwarves went. Not that anyone besides a dwarf would actually be able to tell the difference of course...

[Lichen]

”Ooof!” the woman said. ”Your voice sounds like dying cats!” This did not seem to horrify so much as it amused her. ”Have you heard nothing of tone?” She looked around for a few seconds before grinning and dashing into the bushes, hair flying wildly. When she emerged a few seconds later, it was with a small section of horsetail in her hand and a large portion of greenery in her hair.

”This will help, I feel!” she said brightly, and nicked his knife from him with such speed and skill he had no time to argue or even consider her possible history as a pickpocket. She took the point of the knife and dug several small holes out of her horsetail before tucking the weapon back into his belt with a pat. ”Now!” she said, and proceeded to blow down into one of the holes.

One could not say, in all honesty, that this was the finest note they had ever heard. For unlike their more solid cousins the reed, horsetails did not make the best of musical instruments. Flimsy, filamentous and wet, the noise was of fair tone and decent volume, but odd resonance. Nonetheless, it was easily recognized as a note, and the proceeding notes did indeed form the melody which the dwarf had been attempting. ”You see?” she asked. ”Higher, you must sing it higher!”

[Dvalinn Brandrslá]

"Who needs tone?" Dvalinn replied, "I ain't got none and I've been getting along quite fine." To prove the point, he continued to bellow along the song. He did not go any higher in pitch, however, there was a very good reason dwarves did not sing tenor. Among dwarven kind there was a famous bardic tale of Olaf the Deafening who won a key victory against an orcish scouting party near Primus Gaudeo by singing in falsetto during the battle. Dvalinn pitied the poor orc fiends. In all actuality, Dvalinn almost pitied anyone who had to face dwarves in heated battle.

Now, weighing the merits and pros and cons of reeds and horsetails and whatnot, about that Dvalinn did not have the slightest clue. One did not have a whole lot of contact with musical instruments in Dwarven society, much less so in the midst of a blacksmith's forge. And the little woman's playing seemed plenty musical to Dvalinn compared to the din and clanging of metal on metal.

As soon as the song was finished, he continued on to the next song he knew, without much of a pause. Once he got started in something he was hard to stop. "Ninety nine bottles of root beer on the wall, ninety nine bottle of root beer! Take one down..."

In order for someone to understand the enthusiasm with which Dvalinn sang this song, one must also understand the exquisite taste and powerful kick of true Dwarven root beer. Not that many facilities could actually produce the real stuff but boy was it good. In fact, Dvalinn highly doubted he would taste any for a good long while now that he had left the settlement. Even there it had been a rare treat. At the thought of this his enthusiasm died down a little and he likely would have started grumbling again but the song picked him up again and he continued melodiously bellowing (which fit more aptly than the description of singing). "...pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of root beer on the wall!"

[Lichen]

The woman scowled at Dvalinn's proclamation and apparent refusal to comply with her directions. The scowl lasted for all of about 5 seconds before she got over it, and started playing along with the rousing version of '99 bottles.' She made it a good bit fancier, adding to the melody and sort of going off on a musical tangent, skipping in time to the beat.

They'd gotten to 49, a number that usually resulted in complete inebriation and blurred vision if played with the appropriate drink, when they came across a river. Well, the rushing lovechild of a river and a stream, rather - wide and deep enough to possibly be dangerous to cross, but small enough for the level of intimidation to feel a little silly. Dvalinn could see the bottem for most of the river, big green rocks easily visible even in the deeper waters. It was crystal clear and likely quite cold.

"Oh dear!" the girl exclaimed. "Whatever shall we do? I don't know how to build a raft!"

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