Was the Brettonian Manling making a joke? Drimbold hoped Valya and Grungni that he was, or there would be a reckoning that he would see paid in blood. The elder Dawi gave him a baleful look, his pipe idly rummaging within his bearded lips as he glared. "I only do not strike you, fer yer folk are known for their honor and their titles, as we Dawi are. But do not mock us, or you'll find the bad end of me axe, understand?" 

The warning was clear. How could anyone think that Dwarfs weren't fit for travel? They traveled further than Elgi or Manlings due to their rugged physique and sheer stubborn nature. Sure, they were not as fast, but they often made better time than others simply because they did not stop until they made it to their destination. 

And Drimbold proved it as they moved. He did not stop or rest unless all others did so, though he could not take all of the credit. He didn't want any of these beardlings or the blasted Elgi to show him up. Not that he needn't have worried though. It was not too long of a walk, all things considered. A few days was a trifle. Back in his day, he traveled across the breadth of the Karaz Ankor and made it to Kislev in little under a month, nearly unheard of by horse much less the Dawi's stout legs. 

Ah, those were the days. Still, once they halted very near to their destination, he still had a bit of the youngster's curiosity in him. Once their so called 'leader' asked for volunteers, Drimbold stood up proudly. He spat a bit of jerky into the dirt and picked up his axe and shield. 

"Aye, I'm coming. Ye need a clear head and a fine axe if it gets messy."