The night hung calmly over the carved halls. The stars, like a thousand gems scattered across the velvet, shone clearly in the deep blue, bathing the Iron Hills in their silver glimmer. Two dwarves sat laid atop the Dainlik, giggling to some, undoubtedly hilarious, joke one of them made.
“And so Donnie ended head first in the bog? I can’t imagine he took kindly to it.”
“Oh, aye, he’s been grumbling about it ever since. He even says he’s still getting bits of moss out of his *magnificent locks*.” Dalbran chuckled, throwing his own mane of hair back as if trying to imitate his brother.
“Truth be told he puts more effort into his hair than myself. Quite a stylish beard, you know.”
“Should I be worried, Bini Valsdottir? Would you like me to tie ribbons and trinkets into my hair?”
“That would be splendid!” She clapped her hands quickly, giggling. “I could offer help!” The dwarrowdam took to straightening and adjusting Dalbran’s hair, grabbing one of her own ribbons to tie into the mane.
‘Oi, stop it!” He protested, but the lass simply redoubled her efforts. A moment later, she fashioned his locks in an intricate braid, overlapping over the back of his head. “Dalbran Gurnisson, the most dashing of all lassies in the Iron Hills!” Bini mocked. “My bonnie lass, would you honour me with a dance?” She lept up, offering a hand. Her partner quirked a brow, “I’m no dancer, you know that. Remember Okri’s nameday? I’d hate to step on your toes again, y’know.”
Bini deflated her cheeks, pouting, her arms crossed. “You can pester with me your stories of glory and might, yet you cannot offer me a simple dance, Dallie? You are no gentlebeard! Baah!” The female scoffed playfully, turning her head dramatically, away from the other dwarf.
“Oh, I am but a simple blacksmith, lass! I can flatten iron, but my feet are firmly planted! Helps with balance.” Dalbran gestured, stomping onto the ground twice, and lowering himself.
“Oh my! My betrothed is a simple blacksmith, and here I thought him a Dwarrow-Lord, with that ribbon in his hair! I’ve been tricked, deceived!” Bini chimed, letting fly another torrent of laughter.
The other dwarf joined in, throwing his head back, his hands rested upon his gut.
A moment later, the dam’s laughter was cut short, her nose scrunching. “Love, wait! Do you smell it?”
Dalbran paused, sniffing. Both of them looked on for a moment, their eyes widened. “Brewer’s Mist!” The two said in unison. “The Brewery must be opened again!”
“Hmmm...” Dalbran ran a fistful of fingers through his beard, thinking. “You reckon we could get a keg for ourselves?”
“Ah, thievery! Dalbran Gurnisson, do you wish to steal a keg of Khazad-Stout from the brewmasters?”
“Well, not thievery! More... eh... more eh... making a long term loan of ale! I’ll deliver a few new goat-shoes and harnesses to the lads in the brewery next week.”
Bini tapped her lip, placing her other hand on her hip. “Well, in that case, I better take a sample or two of the ale, just in case it’s a bad batch. I’m a daughter of a merchant and all that, y’know, I know a thing or two about goods.”
A wide grin hung about Dalbran’s features, and before he knew it, the two of them were racing down the hill, headed for the Brewery on the northern end of the ground settlement.
The pair huffed to the brewing chambers, taking cover behind one of the two empty carts placed outside. Here, the smell of Khazad-Stout filled the air, the mist from the stores creeping out of the doors left ajar.
“So, what now?” Bini asked, popping up behind the cart to get a better look at the brewery.
“Hmm... wait here, I’ll see if I ca-” He was cut off, namely, by the loud banging of boots, and a sudden crash of the doors. Three ginger Dwarves dashed out, one of them donning a large, feathered hat, another gifted with a glorious mane of flowing hair, and third, seemingly eldest of the three, carrying tow barrels of ale under his arms.
“Move those beards, lads! They’re onto us!”
Behind them raced two elderly dwarves, their beards long and white.
“Oi, Gurnissons! Get those barrels back here before we hang you by the beard from the towers of Jarnfast!”
Dalbran watched, almost holding back a cheer. He turned to Bini. “Ah,looks like the lads got ahead of us. Come on, quick, before Garm and Nafi get their hands on them!” The young dwarf beckoned, before sprinting after his brothers. After a few moments of swift waddling, the two lovebeards caught up with the three ale-thieves, leaving the elderly brewmasters huffing behind them, most likely uttering some great curses.
“Ah! Dallie, Bini-lass! Hope we haven’t interrupted some eh... smooching time, have we?” Dirrun, the one in the wide-brimmed hat asked, rifling through his pack to find the mugs the three no-doubt snatched from one of the taverns.
“Ah, no, we were of the same mind as you lot, when we smelled the Mist!” Bini answered, shushing her companion with a finger to the lips. “Though I am certain Dal here will mope and moan about not smooching. He’s...” She shot him a jesting look, hardly concealing the grin that had formed on her thin lips. “Well, I think he wanted a romantic stroll across the Hills!”
The three other Dwarves laughed, very loudly, mind you, before setting about to untap the keg and start pouring the ale. Donorrin was the first to bring a frothing pint to his lips, pointing a finger at Dalbran. “Well, brother, I must say, I love what you’ve done with your hair! I would be even jealous, if I didn’t know how awful it usually was!” The stylish one laughed, sending a volley of foam from the pint arching through the hair.
“The hai- wazzok!” Dalbran shot a hand up to the back of his head, grumbling. In all the commotion, he had hoped the beautiful braid Bini wrought would have been undone, yet, there it was as if he didn’t spend the last half an hour sprinting from the Dainlik to the Brewery, and then down into the lower hillsides.
“I told him he’s quite dashing with it. What do you think lads?” Bini chimed, pushing past Dirrun to fix herself a mug of ale as well.
“Well, Bini, I reckon the fair countenance of our brother Dalbran would outmatch Lady Dis of Ered Luin or even the mighty splendor of the Arkenstone itself? What do you say, lads, a toast to our brother, Dalbran Gurnisson, fairest of all the beards in the Hills?” Donorrin raised his mug, and the others, Bini included, joined in.
That night, song and laughter broke from the lower hills, far into the early hours of the morning. They would all be chewed out for their mischief tomorrow, surely, but, nights as clear and peaceful were becoming rarer and rarer in the Iron Hills. Their voices slowly broke upon the hillside, as if welcoming the rising sun with joy and revelry.
