Arte approached the Blackenshield of Casnoriva.
He was tired. He preferred to walk, but to carry all of the writs and tokens used for expenses, along with other gear and essentials, he had taken a small gelding. The gelding put up with his weight for maybe half the trip before opting to inform the dwarf to get the hell off his back by stopping dead on at the foot of a hill.
The horse had been rewarded with a swift smack in its hindquarters with the flat of his axe, which produced the desired behavior.
In Casnoriva, people looked at him sideways, him and his gelding. Was a booger hanging out of his nose? Was he hauling around severed gnome heads? Maybe he just was that attractive a specimen.
Of course, it was because he was a dwarf with serious weapons, a serious gaze and a serious intolerance for people who stared. A snarl at one of the many wenches who looked dumbly at him garnered the desired behavior.
That's what it was all about, sometimes. Do what's needed to get someone to do whatever you want them to.
The Baron hadn't done that. He hadn't needed to because the was the Baron. He hobbled about and handed down orders. Arte sniffed at that, looking at the blackened door of the Blackenshield.
It was morning. The sun was beaming across the horizon with warming, richly yellow light, and it was something that did make Arte a little less grumpy. His brethren lacked the appreciation for sunlight. No matter. More for him. It permeated his armor, his skin, straight to his bones and warmed his stone-hard soul. Just what he needed.
Almost. On the trip over, he realized he needed an actual helm. One that could keep his head safer than the beat up leather-and-wood training hat he used. Later though.
He stepped inside the Blackenshield with his pack, axe and shield. The day bartender — some wornout lug of a man — gave him a stiff look. Arte gave him a stiff expression that told the bartender to find his hand and use it in his pants. The bartender sneered. Arte ignored him. Barkeeps hated that.
There was a collection of souls in the corner that had finished up a well-timed breakfast. Strange crew ... with an elfess at the head of it, looking dainty and pretty and elf-like with her tricky ways. Arte didn't like her yet. Maybe she was OK. Maybe.
He trudged over. There was a dwarf and a half-elf on either side of the spot where he poked his face. He was glad the table was low and the sun was pouring onto their dining table.
Arte skipped introductions for the moment. He saw what he needed to see, which was the pendant. He took out his own while the dwarf and half-elf were staring at him, probably thinking he was rude or some other dim thing.
He tossed it on the table, just so. He wasn't a stonethrower, but he pitched it so it landed just east of her napkin.
"Baron Eric Riley von Ustav has need of you, ma'am," he said.
He was tired. He preferred to walk, but to carry all of the writs and tokens used for expenses, along with other gear and essentials, he had taken a small gelding. The gelding put up with his weight for maybe half the trip before opting to inform the dwarf to get the hell off his back by stopping dead on at the foot of a hill.
The horse had been rewarded with a swift smack in its hindquarters with the flat of his axe, which produced the desired behavior.
In Casnoriva, people looked at him sideways, him and his gelding. Was a booger hanging out of his nose? Was he hauling around severed gnome heads? Maybe he just was that attractive a specimen.
Of course, it was because he was a dwarf with serious weapons, a serious gaze and a serious intolerance for people who stared. A snarl at one of the many wenches who looked dumbly at him garnered the desired behavior.
That's what it was all about, sometimes. Do what's needed to get someone to do whatever you want them to.
The Baron hadn't done that. He hadn't needed to because the was the Baron. He hobbled about and handed down orders. Arte sniffed at that, looking at the blackened door of the Blackenshield.
It was morning. The sun was beaming across the horizon with warming, richly yellow light, and it was something that did make Arte a little less grumpy. His brethren lacked the appreciation for sunlight. No matter. More for him. It permeated his armor, his skin, straight to his bones and warmed his stone-hard soul. Just what he needed.
Almost. On the trip over, he realized he needed an actual helm. One that could keep his head safer than the beat up leather-and-wood training hat he used. Later though.
He stepped inside the Blackenshield with his pack, axe and shield. The day bartender — some wornout lug of a man — gave him a stiff look. Arte gave him a stiff expression that told the bartender to find his hand and use it in his pants. The bartender sneered. Arte ignored him. Barkeeps hated that.
There was a collection of souls in the corner that had finished up a well-timed breakfast. Strange crew ... with an elfess at the head of it, looking dainty and pretty and elf-like with her tricky ways. Arte didn't like her yet. Maybe she was OK. Maybe.
He trudged over. There was a dwarf and a half-elf on either side of the spot where he poked his face. He was glad the table was low and the sun was pouring onto their dining table.
Arte skipped introductions for the moment. He saw what he needed to see, which was the pendant. He took out his own while the dwarf and half-elf were staring at him, probably thinking he was rude or some other dim thing.
He tossed it on the table, just so. He wasn't a stonethrower, but he pitched it so it landed just east of her napkin.
"Baron Eric Riley von Ustav has need of you, ma'am," he said.