The snow was merciless. Already it had delayed Dwimmer's departure by more than a week, and there was no sign of it letting up. Muttering into his beard, he paced the stones of Zigilgund and watched as the heavy skies drew the curtain of white even more thickly over the land.
"Mahalu-me turg! This cannot continue! What will Milady say? She'll think I've forsaken her call and end by cursing the name of "Dwarf"..."
As in answer, the north wind blew a cutting blast into Dwimmer's face, pelting it with snow and frozen rain and blinding his eyes even as he steadied himself against the howling onslaught. Feeling for the dwarven stonework with an outstretched hand, he made his way to the inner court of the small fortress and silently joined the other dwarves sitting huddled by the fire. Dwimmer picked up a piece of kindling that lay nearby and poked at the fire miserably.
The journey south held more portent than that of keeping an oath to the Order. Dwimmer had hoped to have some news of his little lass, Fairlain. He recalled when she was small and would sit beside her mother as she tended her market stall in Dale. Sometimes Dwimmer would bring out a small table and set it a little way from the girl and her mother, selling small trinkets of silver and gold. It was not that he needed the coin, but rather wished to keep the pair company.
The Dwarf smiled under his beard as he remembered, and thought, "If mithril were as common as the wiggles and squirms of children, we'd all be wearing full plate armour."
It was at those times that Dwimmer began to teach Fairlain the sign language of the Dwarves, mostly as a way to keep the lass quiet as her mother bartered prices for her wares. It was not long before she was using this mode of communication to make commentary upon the customers in the marketplace, and often Dwimmer was reduced to just waggling his finger at the child as she made gestures regarding large noses and smelly pants.
Dwimmer sighed deeply, shaking himself out of his reverie. Fairlain had been a woman grown for quite a few years now, and had proved well able to fend for herself. Still, one could not blame an old dwarf for waxing nostalgic. He poked at the fire once more, sending sparks flying and producing a few grunts of protest from the dwarves sitting beside him. And the snow kept on falling.
