[center][b][h1]Bork Valding[/h1][/b][/center]

Pigeon Spit.  What a stupid name.  Sounded more like an epithet one would use to berate errant workers.  As in:  “Move it, Pigeon Spit!  No, the other hammer, Pigeon Spit!  You guys are all dumber’n pigeon spit!”.  And frankly, Bork hadn’t seen much of the town so far that would warrant a better name.  The dwarf had heard that the king was sending somebody to shore the place up, develop it, make it into a town worth more than pigeon spit.  That somebody clearly hadn’t arrived yet when Bork got there, so the engineer had set about on his own, making inquiries, visiting the copper mine and the quarry, talking to the harbor master about facilities and commerce, generally taking notes and forming some ideas. 

Both the mines and the harbor facilities were badly in need of some tough love, to say nothing of competent management and a sense of direction.  There was potential here.  Hopefully, the decision makers in this community weren’t such idiots that they couldn’t see that, or appreciate the extent to which Bork Valding could provide those things.  So it was with great curiosity and hope that Bork waited at the dock with a small knot of assorted yokels to watch the arrival of their new…governor? Mayor? Aedile?  Commissioner?  Whatever his title was to be.  The guy Bork would have to pitch his ideas to in order to make things happen.  And he had a few of those ideas already.

Bork was dressed in his “nice” clothes, an outfit that Roswith had picked out for him when they were still talking to one another:  a beret that kept threatening to fly off his head with every breath of wind, a bright blue cloak fastened by a fussy brass brooch that took too long to polish, a tunic and trouser you couldn’t even really see under the cloak, anyway, and a pair of those silly, uncomfortable pointy-toed boots with shiny buckles as fussy and polish-hungry as the brooch.  The dwarf glanced ruefully down at his feet, amazed and disgusted by how dirty and dusty those boots got just in the walk from the Rusty Peg.  Once he had gotten his fill of disgust at his own footwear, he looked up to the arriving launch, to behold somebody, presumably His Whateverness, trying to disembark on horseback.  Who did that?  Perhaps the poor man had a Roswith of his own, Bork thought, loading him up with advice on how best to make an impression.  Or worse:  advisers.  

It wasn’t long before the man paid for his folly; the horse faltered as it tried to step off the boat, pitching His Most Elevated Center of Gravity gracelessly onto the pier.  The townsfolk giggled like idiots at this.  Bork simply felt annoyance and disgust, much as he felt about his dirty boots.  He was willing to give His Nibs the benefit of the doubt, assuming that he had been put up to this equestrian nonsense by somebody at court, or one those solicitous handlers who were now fawning over their fallen charge.  Still, it was not a good omen for what was to come.  The dwarf fervently hoped that His Officialdom would exercise better and more independent judgment when it came to matters of industry and commerce.

There was only one way to find out:  follow the procession, now that it was once more up and moving, back to the Rusty Peg and buttonhole His Buttonholeyness as soon as he got the chance.