His name is Snarfi, son of Snori. His father was not a dwarf of any particular note, but it would make him proud to be mentioned, and so Snarfi obligingly makes a point of doing so.

Snarfi hails from Erebor, though he has not seen it in many long years. In fact, Snarfi was not even born under the Lonely Mountain, for it was at that time still the domain of the drake, Smaug. His family hails from there, however, and it has long been their tradition to stubbornly claim to be 'from' Erebor despite all evidence to the contrary.

Snarfi is a warrior (of exceptionally middling talent) by grim necessity, a keen angler by choice, a jeweller by trade, and, as he is often fond of saying, "a dwarf by the good grace of Mahal." He is also a disappointment to his father, who wanted him to carry a shield in the ranks of Erebor's vault wardens. When Snarfi announced his intention to move to Ered Luin to pursue a business opportunity, old Snori grumbled that "we took this bloody long to take back Erebor, and now my wee lad is sodding off to the Blue Mountains before I've so much as had a chance to move the furniture back in!" It had, in fact, been a good decade since King Dáin II had been crowned, but to an old dwarf, ten years is no time at all. 

With that said, however, Snarfi has never really proven to be a very successful tradesdwarf, owing mostly to his tendency to want to hang on to the merchandise for himself. He has a talent for cutting marvelous gems, and crafting glittering jewellery, to the extent that even his curmudgeonly old father was proud to boast of it. The trick of it though, is actually parting with his precious creations once he's finished them, and that's where he struggles.

As he would explain (in so many words), in this great and wide world, it is the mundane treasures, the mithril, the rubies, emeralds, opals and sapphires in which one finds a kind of truth. Other folk might see them as trinkets or baubles, but to Snarfi, they are a beauty untouched by any dishonest enchantment or influence. They are treasures sprung from the stone and made magnificent by hard work and time-honoured skill - rather like the dwarves themselves. For you see, according to him, the kind of magic that can be wrought simply by a keen eye and some elbow grease is the mightiest of all - a sentiment he'd see carved painstakingly on his own headstone if he could.

Hard work and an honourable reputation are ideals by which he lives every day, when he can. As he was told when he was younger, and as he tells the new beardlings himself these days, 'when you go out there, beyond the mountain, over the hills and through the trees and into the world of the tall folk, you are an ambassador for our people. Bring no wrath to our doors or ruin to our reputation for ever since the ancient days have Mahal's children survived by the goodwill of others, as well as our own tenacity. Do honour unto others, and they shall do honour unto you.' Whether he always lives up to this lofty creed is another matter entirely, but he holds it to be very important.

Suffice to say, Snarfi looks at life with the mind of an engineer, rather than a mystic or a poet. Some might quip that he's more of a cynic, but he would retort that he simply believes in the order of things: As surely as Master Bávor ponders the workings of the puzzle vault, Snarfi ponders the workings of the world, one hammering of the chisel at a time.

A short, sturdy creature fond of drink and industry.