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


The young layabouts in town seemed uninterested in work; in fact, to the dwarf’s surprise, they turned actively hostile when they found out the job involved a stone wall for the abbot.  [b]”The guv wants a pile o’ stones, does he?”[/b] called out one particularly rowdy oaf.  [b]”Here, he can have one!”[/b]  A rock big enough to fill the palm of Bork’s hand narrowly missed his head.  Bork happened to be holding a long measuring stick, and with a litany of oaths that would probably have made His Grace’s ears fall off, launched off in angry pursuit after the brat, who fled quickly, cheered on by a small group of his friends, who, however, kept their distance.  Just as the malcontent ducked into a shack, the rain erupted once more, causing dwarf and kids alike to break off the altercation and retreat to their respective lodgings.

Bork’s mood was as black as the clouds overhead.  His face scowled deep within the folds of his hood as he reached the shallow trench, which now resembled a tiny moat,  marking the planned course of his wall around the abbot’s house.  His boots squished in the mud, making a sound that only his good ear could pick up.  The dwarf was not actually upset about the delay; he had not intended to finish the wall on time, anyway, preferring instead to concentrate on his plans.  His work ethic, however, compelled him to monitor the situation, chafed on principle at the lack of progress, and took offense at the local youth’s hostility to a chance for honest labor.  

What was wrong with this town? He fumed as he watched yesterday’s accomplishments fill with soupy water.  Did it not want to grow?  Become something other than a small, run-down pirate’s nest?  ‘Spitters (that was the demonym Bork had assigned to them) were fools, with no vision, and a comfort zone that languished in a disorderly heap of squalor.

[center][b][h1]Nelthurin Sebheon[/h1][/b][/center]

Bork did not look up when the harbor master first greeted him.  [i]Bad ear[/i], the elf remembered.  [b]”Master Bork!”[/b] he called out more loudly, [b]”I see you’re making fine progress on your canal”[/b]  This time the squat cloaked figure turned sharply towards him.  Nelthurin could not see the dwarf’s expression, but judging from the silence that greeted his attempt at banter, he guessed that it was unpleasant.  And he could guess some of the reasons for that.  Walking around to the opening in the trench where the front gate was to be, he came alongside the dwarf..  [b]”We need to talk to the abbot about this port closing nonsense,”[/b] he said more seriously.

He was close enough now to see the frown on Bork’s face.  [b]”I thought that was just a rumor,”[/b] the dwarf said.  

Nelthurin nodded.  [b]”It is rubbish,”[/b] he confirmed, [b]”but it is rubbish that has spread all over town, and that is as worrying as the restlessness the rumor is causing.”[/b]

The dwarf nodded and started to walk towards the door.  [b]”His Grace was resting earlier,”[/b] he said glumly. [b]”Up all night treating night coughs, but let’s hope he’ll see us.”[/b]

A couple moments later two dripping cloaked forms walked into the lobby.  Facing Scribe Drom they both pulled back their hoods to regard her with stony expressions.  Bork spoke up first, although he only said what was on both of their minds.  [b]”We really need to talk to the Abbot.  The village is turning as nasty as this weather.  Is he up yet?”[/b]