Keystone thanked the merchant for his offer, understanding that this was most likely the best deal he was going to get this evening. The rate of pay was still monstrously better than a laborer would have picked up for a similar amount of time. So, he would miss the appointment with the junior historian that evening. The whole deal sounded like a scam anyway. Keystone noted again that he would have to locate a spellcaster he could trust. With an undertaking such as this, it may well mean the difference between life and death. Noting the commotion in the shack on the corner, he turned to the merchant, "I can start in a half hour, Harfen. Need to take care of something pertinent; I will be right back."

He approached the hovel, listening to the sounds of metalwork in progress. The heat difference was notable as he neared the entrance. Before he got fully within sight of the proprietor, he dug into his pack and brought out smallish bottle wrapped up in a dark colored shirt. Unwinding the article of clothing, he carefully palmed the bottle and replaced his pack. Having dealt with Dwarves before, Keystone approached in a confident but respectful manner, eyes direct but trying not to appear as one looking down on the elder craftsman. 

In practiced (if a trace slow and formal) Dwarven, he began, "Forgemaster Rocksteady, I am called Edeknurl," the last word the direct Dwarven translation, "or Keystone among my own people. I know you are very busy, but may I buy a little of your time with this?"

Keystone held up the flask-like bottle, one of a few in his personal stash. "This distillation is a thing of my own homeland. To not insult you, I did not make it myself. Men with better learning put their hearts into it. It is considered respectable in my city, though not likely as fine as the spirits of your father's kin." A little too formal. He needed practice around more native speakers, but at least the rusty hinge of his subterranean linguistics got a little movement. A little more, and he may have even felt comfortable speaking the language aloud. 

Slightly flustered at his blocky speech, he exhaled sharply and continued, "If I may, Master Smith, my knowledge of the written language is less accurate than spoken Dwarven. Can you tell me what this says?" he produced the charcoal rubbing of the engraving on the bracers, and wrapping it around the bottle, offered it formally to the smith.