[color=aba000][center][h2][b]Duren Ghedic[/b][/h2][/center][/color]
[i][center][h3]Early morning, The Moving camp[/h3][/center][/i]

The morning sun peaked over the vast mountaintops that circled The Moving's current location. A fair spot it was, and the bitter winds reminded Duren of his home - the dwarven city of Bhornbadir, which lay only half a day's journey south of the northern mountains that many mountain dwarves call home. As a highland dwarf himself, he never particularly loved the cold, but he always said that if he had to pick one or the other, he'd much sooner freeze to death than die of a heat stroke in some seemingly endless desert.

However, the old dwarf was certain his death would come today, and at the hands of something completely unrelated to the temperature, for this morning, like many mornings, Duren was suffering the ill effects of a hangover. His brain felt as though it had grown too large for its skull-prison and had begun to beat against the walls in a desperate attempt to escape. Likewise, with every slight movement of a muscle, he felt as though the containments of his guts would rush up through his throat and out his mouth. He never liked vomit, but his love of alcohol overpowered that distaste tenfold. As a result, he found himself facedown in a barrel more often than he'd like to admit.

Years of practice seemed to only to do the highlander an ounce of good, though, as the hangovers never got any better, no matter how many pints he drank in rapid succession. The small rays of sun that beamed in through the seams of his tent felt painful rather than warm, and his normally soft bedroll felt as though it was getting tighter with each movement, like quicksand in some strange cloth-like form. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinked, sighed, and rubbed his face in a lame attempt to wake himself up.

"Soddin' booze ain't killed me yet," Duren murmured to himself, chuckling as a faint smile formed behind his thick black beard. However, the pain involved in moving even these small muscles meant that this smile was short-lived.

No doubt, the dwarf was in a rough state this morn. Rougher, one might say, than most mornings. It did little, however, to quell Duren's optimism, and despite the surging pain, he managed to pull himself from his bedroll and do his best to clean himself up. Highland dwarves took pride in their cleanliness when compared to their mountain kin, but since leaving his home to pursue life as a traveler, he's noticed an even higher level of expectation when it came to living amongst humans. Bathing every morning seemed almost counterproductive to him, but he did not question it. After all, he was in the business of protection, not investigation.

Preparing himself for a blast of sunshine to worsen his state, Duren approached the small entrance of his tent, pulling the cloth door to one side. To his delight, heavy - almost black - rainclouds approached from the west. Rainfall always did a hungover soul well.

However, having been a part of The Moving for several months now, Duren also knew that a hangover was not an excuse for laziness, especially not in a community such as this that had so graciously taken him in. He had a duty to these people - their protection. His skills as a guard during his time in Bhornbadir served these people well, even if his days consisted mostly of fending off hungry animals as the people of The Moving moved throughout the wildlands of Allaria. It was a job, and one Duren took pride in. Seeing the world was just an added bonus.

Letting the remnants of the sun's light illuminate his tent before the clouds took over, Duren prepared himself a light morning snack - just something to keep his stomach settled - accompanied by a portable mug of tea. The recipe for the beverage was one his great-grandmother, Gorinara, taught him when he was a small lad. Of course, like any good dwarven brew, the drink was spiked with a small spoonful of whiskey. Nothing [i]truly[/i] cures a hangover like more alcohol in the system, after all.

With his whiskey-tea in tow, Duren donned his dwarvencrafted armour once more, slung his grand-pappy's shield over his shoulder, and clipped his waraxe to his hip. An intimidating sight, to be sure, but anyone who knew the dwarf knew that his jolly personality abandoned his menacing appearance, and that anyone looking to brighten their day could rely on Duren to do just that.

"G'morning to ye', lassie!" Duren shouted, raising an arm to wave at Linda, a young human woman, aged only 23, that Duren had grown to appreciate as if she were a member of his own family. She, in turn, treated him as something of an adopted uncle, and the two could often be heard deep in conversation, and it was not rare to see Linda approach Duren during guard duties with freshly baked goods, and sometimes a little extra liquid courage, to help get him through the day. With only a few months under his belt as a member of The Moving, Duren had come to appreciate Linda's hospitality, and she in turn seemed to appreciate his friendship.

As Linda saw Duren, she returned the warm gesture, approaching him from across the community's small marketplace, nearly forgetting to pay for the light foodstuffs she'd purchased from an old vendor.

"Someone's looking a little worse for wear," the woman said, giving Duren a playful nudge on the shoulder. The dwarf stood at about half his friend's height, though the wrinkles that lined his face did little to hide the fact that he's lived twice as many years as she. Linda observed the dark circles under Duren's eyes - a clear sign of his state. She chuckled, knowing there was little she could do to help at this point. "I nearly had to drag you from the tavern-tent last night, you old boozebag. You and that Szazah were having quite the conversation, hm? Something about snow elves, or some such nonsense."

"Szazah?" Duren replied, after returning Linda's nudge and taking a sip of his tea. The morning whiskey really did hit the spot. The name Szazah, however, did little to clear the fog of his memory. "I dinnae r'member. Th' snow elves is just a legend, anyways. T'ain't no truth to it."

Linda nodded her head in agreeance with the notion, and handed Duren a plum. The purple fruit looked about as ripe as it could get in this part of Allaria, and Duren knew that such a thing would have cost the girl a pretty penny. Clearly, his look abandoned his thoughts.

"Don't worry," Linda said, with a mischievous giggle. "All it cost me was an innocent smile, and a single loosened button. Take it, it'll do your old bones some good to get something other than bear meat and ale into your system."

Duren chuckled in return, taking the plum with no more hesitation. "Yer' a sly one, girl."

"Yes, and you're going to be a late one if you don't get a move on. What would we do without mighty Duren to save us from malnourished coyotes?" Before Duren could reply to the snarky remark, however, Linda's giggles trailed behind him. He laughed as well as he watched the young woman head off to carry out the remainder of her morning routine with one hand on his pounding forehead, while the other one rolled the new addition to his meal in his callused palm.

[i][center][h3]Noon, The Moving camp entrance[/h3][/center][/i]

As the morning passed, the rain kept falling. The drops were heavy and thick, and Duren could feel each one beat against his forehead, and the smaller drops of the splash that followed each plop. Water beaded off the ridges of his brow, falling in front of his eyes and onto his puffed cheeks. He'd be lying if he said the weather did not help soothe his hangover, but the cold was starting to get to him, and he could feel his thick fingers begin to shake underneath his steel gauntlets.

But such was the life of a guard. Some days, the sun shone brightly, while others, she hid behind the clouds. Likewise, some days the community made nothing louder than a peep, while others would be spent tracking down thieves and other ne'er-do-wells. Each day was new, and that's something Duren had learned to accept in his 47 years of life.

Despite this, the weather was the last thing on the dwarf's mind this morn. In fact, he had been wracking his brain during his entire shift, ever since Linda had mentioned it, wondering just what he could have been talking about with Szazah, and why she thought they had mentioned the Shadowwald. Surely, if a race elves who called the tundras home did exist, they would not have managed to survive for so long, completely undetected by other civilizations. Surely, Duren thought, they were nothing but a myth. [i]Surely.[/i]

But, to his great frustration, Duren could not pull the unusual memory from his mind-bank. Had Linda even truly seen and heard what she thought she did? Perhaps she had mistaken the man's identity, and it was indeed just another commoner. Duren couldn't imagine a reason for he and the man named Szazah to converse so openly, especially about a topic as bizarre as the Shadowwald.

With his free hand, Duren stroked the braided bits of his long beard, overlooking the mountainous scenery that surrounded The Moving's newest landing. It was quite the sight, though Duren dreaded the treks across the mountains - his legs were not quite as long and travel-ready as these humans', and especially not of certain beastkin he had seen. Indeed, some of them spanned double his height, and then some. Despite having been away from dwarven lands for over two years now, he still had trouble accustoming to the significant height differences. If anything, that was what he missed from Bhornbadir - a true sense of fitting in.

Realizing how far his thoughts had wandered, Duren gave his head a slight shake. Rainwater splattered in all directions, like that of a dog fresh out of a lake, as his coarse facial hair swung from side to side. 

The dwarf reached down to grab his plum, taking a hefty bite. By the time the sour juices of the fruit reached his taste buds, the water pouring down from the heavens had conglomerated between his beard hairs once more. This time, he let it remain as he chewed. What harm could rainwater do, after all?

[i][center][h3]Late afternoon, The Moving camp[/h3][/center][/i]

As Duren's shift slowly came to a close, the rain began to ease up. Just in time for the residents to come out in the open, and, with any luck, join together at the tavern-tents for some ales and tales. The perfect way to end a day, as far as Duren was concerned.

Footsteps, about as heavy as Duren's own, but much more sparse, could be heard approaching the dwarf from behind, within the walls of the traveling community. As Duren turned to look, he saw Airic, who became more and more clear the closer he got, eventually close enough for Duren's poor eyesight to make him out completely clearly. Adorned in silver armour with a menacing blade bouncing upon his thigh with each step, Airic approached Duren looking about as clean-cut as the dwarf had earlier in the morning.

"Don't laugh, you're the one who did this to me," Duren's guardmate said, pointing and trying his best to hide his laughter behind a poorly disguised smirk.

"Aye? An' I must'ave knocked ye' out an' dragged ye' down to the aletents, then, did I?" Duren replied, followed by a bout of laughter. There was a certain level of amusement the dwarf found in the longer-lasting effects alcohol had on humans as compared to dwarves. Both creatures certainly experienced hangovers, but the poor humans were known to suffer for entire days at a time, while the stouter dwarves were ready and willing to go for round two after only a few hours. In the past two years, Duren's learned to appreciate this fact more and more.

"Stuff it, dwarf," Airic replied again, laughing alongside his companion. "Any sign of trouble this morn?"

"Nay, not a sign o' bandit nor bear. Not ev'n a bird in th' sky, today."

"That bodes well for me, I suppose. I'd rather be bored than sinking my blade in some poor sap's gut. Blood is a real pain in the arse to wash."

"Aye," Duren replied behind a chuckle. Airic had a dark sense of humour, undoubtedly, but humour is humour, and dark is quite a common choice among guardsmen.

"So, have you heard the news?" Airic questioned his short friend, as he readied his own gear in preparation of taking over the guard's duties once Duren's shift ended. "Your bar-buddy got the go-ahead for his little expedition. I suppose we'll have to find someone else to cover guard duties until you come back, hm?"

Airic's words did little other than confuse the old dwarf. He had claimed it were news, but all it did was create more questions to bounce about in Duren's mind.

"You been drinkin' that goblin juice again, lad? Whate'er ye' be talkin' about?" At this point, Duren's head had turned to face his fellow guard once more, watching him sharpen a couple arrows that sat in his quiver. Airic returned the stare, and before long, a wide smile creeped across his face. Yellowed teeth revealed themselves to the lighter drops of rain, and Airic went on to laugh through his thin nose, the air pushing away the sparse hair that grew in small patches on his upper lip.

"You don't remember, do you?" Airic asked, answering Duren's question with a question of his own. The highland dwarf shook his head, one eyebrow raised to mould a suspicious expression.

"You and that old Szazah - the man that's had the whole Moving going on about the Shadowwald? He wants to go on some insane journey to find the 'snow elves?' Any of this ring a bell for you? No?" Airic chukled again, shook his head, and took a seat on the opposite side of the gate. Duren stood up from his own seat, his belongings slung hastily over his shoulder. Again, he shook his head, and again, he could not help but feel as though both Airic and Linda had made some strange mistake.

However, Airic's words soon put an end to Duren's confusion.

"You damned fool. Szazah had you all up in arms all night, going on about his plans to discover the Shadowwald. Had you convinced they were real, and everything."

Airic's story, slowly but surely, began to form pictures in Duren's hazy memory. It was as though the syllables were gusts of wind in his mind, blowing away a dense fog that hid the memories from Duren's mind's eye.

"Before any of us knew it, you'd pledged allegiance - some sort of dwarven honour, you were going on about - to Szazah's grand delusion. Said you'd be honoured to act as a guard for him on his journey. I bet he's waiting for you right now. I saw two other folk enter his tent on my way here."

As Airic finished speaking, Duren's eyes grew wide. His mind had suddenly cleared, and any trace of the fog that once guarded his memories had all but faded. Now, he could remember very clearly how he had promised Szazah to aid him on his quest to discover the Shadowwald. He had sworn it, in fact. Sworn on his grand-pappy's beard that he'd help Szazah find some kind of answers to his questions, for the betterment of The Resistance.

With a sloppy smack, Duren's hand came up hard against his forehead. The dwarf facepalmed, shaking his head in his soaked palm as the memories finally dawned on him.

He wasn't disappointed to hear the "news," however. In fact, behind the rough hand, a smirk began to form.

"Aye, ye're right. I remember now," Duren said to Airic. He approached the man and lay a hand on his shoulder, the clink of wet steel on wet steel overpowering the lightened rain. "I s'pose tha' means I'm off, then. 'Ave fun wit' th' malnourished wolves, eh lad?"

With a wink, followed by a nudge, Duren took off back into the community, one arm swinging back and forth while the other kept a firm grip on the bottom of his shield to prevent it from bouncing too much on his back. A dwarf's honour was on the line here - namely, his own honour - and what's a dwarf without honour? A criminal, usually, and Duren had spent 30 years as a guard fighting against the actions of those who would go against the law.

Before long, Duren was at the entrance to Szazah's tent, huffing and puffing as he swerved in between the townsfolk. His hair was matted to his scalp as the rainwater kept it moist, and the bottoms of his steel greaves were coated in mud from the splashing of the mucky earth beneath his hurried footsteps.

Without hesitation, Duren swung open the tent doors, nearly collapsing through the entrance. Inside, he was met with the sight of Szazah himself, alongside two fellow members of The Moving - a human man, and a beastkin man, though Duren was unfamiliar with what animal he was, exactly. Some kind of rodent, no doubt.

"Ye' best not be leavin' on an adventure without a dwarf in yer' midst, eh?" Duren shouted, likely interrupting any conversation within the room. "Not to worry, laddies! Duren is 'ere, and t'ain't no gettin' rid o' me once ye' got me," he said, chuckling. With each laugh, the dwarf's black beard bounced in unison with his stomach. The dwarf swung his knapsack from his shoulder and down onto the floor of Szazah's tent, pulling a couple bottles of brownish liquid from the bag's various compartments.

"Now, who wants ale, hm?"

[h3][center]-----[/center][/h3]

Summary: Drunk dwarf makes wonderful first impression.