[hider=Burundi Malgrimsson]Buruni draped the hides he had just purified in the water over the drying rack, droplets slapping the floor. Three hides were laid upon it, and he turned around to continue his work for the second batch, folding them neatly and placing them in another clay bowl to remove all of the salt left over from the curing. Wiping his large paw-like hands, he pulled the rope dangling next to his bearded head and a section of the makeshift workspace opened up so the sun could pour upon the drying skins. 

Every item in the shack, indeed the shack itself, the Dwarf had meticuliously fashioned by his lonesome. All save the fire-forged poleaxe, armor, and the small set of supplies he had in a knapsack. Even if his father had not ordered him to go and make a name for himself, he likely would have done it seeing how these manlings made things. He had heard of their shoddy work, but this was ridiculous. He wagered he could forge better armor than the town smith, and he had only used the hammer five times in his seventy years! 

Strange for a Dwarf to work on textiles rather than steel, at least when someone only expected the stereotype. Did they think there were no Dawi farmers or bankers? Did they spring up from holes in the ground, beard and all? He shook his shaggy head and continued his task, working milk of lime along the drying leather with a precision unmatched in the empire. If only his father had thought the same in Barak Varr. Well when he came back rich, he'd tell the old longbeard off! With respect of course. 

At the back of his mind, he registered he heard a small noise from out front. Another click in the air, and suddenly the tanning rack he was working on snapped and fell over, along with half of the shack he had made! The wood falling upon his head heavily. If he had been anything but a Dwarf, it would have laid him low. Instead he grumbled and shoved the kindling out of the way, grabbing his poleaxe more to move the small beams than out of anger. But as soon as he stepped out of the pile, he knew it had been foul play. 

"Step off Dwarf." The tall lollard sneered, taking a deep drink from his small bottle of whiskey. It was Kert Varnan, the leather tanner from across the small hamlet Burundi lived in. The man's ten year old lad stood there as well, laughing like a goblin from the deeps. He could have guessed the cause of this one collapsing his shop. The fool had probably lost his business when Burundi entered town. Unfortunately, rather than leave with dignity or shave his head and honor his Gods, manlings instead liked to express their grievances in the most petty way possible. "We've had enough of you stunties around here." Kert continued. 

Even with the splintered in his beard, Burundi cut a noble figure for one of his tough race. Blue and gold colors adorned his workman's robes, and bronze ringlets curled about his dark beard, framing it. The Dwarf stomped the butt of his poleaxe on the ground, not in any threatening way. But he did see Kert go for his broadsword. His son cheered. "Get him pop! Show him what you're gonna do if he stays!" 

Burundi ignored the boy. "You're about as brazen as you are nonthreatening, and you're about as nonthreatening as a whipped mongrel pup." He growled. He would rather not do violence here in the village, but his anger was also mounting. "Take this chance and leave with what little honor you have left, if you ever had any. Do it before I end your life suffering. More than I can say about your suffering business."  

As Burundi son of Malgrim turned to go and salvage his materials, it was Kert's curse of "Hells with you, filth!" that warned him an attack was coming. The Dwarf turned, Poleaxe leading to intercept the slash with a clang. The boy stepped back, and the Dwarf hoped it would stop there, but the man, clearly wanting to end the competition and impress his son, drew back for a stab. Burundi chopped down at the sword thrust, redirecting it as he simultaneously stepped forward, running the man through with the spike of his weapon. 

The 'dag' as it was called in Brettonia punched through the man's lower back, bloodied. The whirl and cheers from the lad fell silent as Kert let out a noise in surprise and pain, and he soon began to shake as blood dropped to the dirt so much like the water had on his soaked skins. A gasp to the side drew Burundi's attention. The cobbler had been watching, with a hand on his mouth and his eyes wide. The boy whimpered, and he ran over to his father as Kert collapsed onto the ground, clearly losing his life as they watched. 

Burundi Malgrimsson cleaned his weapon, squaring his jaw to keep his guilt from rising up. He had been attacked and he had defended himself. Grungni, nor even the mannish Sigmar would hold him accountable. Still, with his shack gone and a known man about town dead, it was best if he left with dignity, as Kert should have. 

The boy ran up to Burundi and began to hit him, barely reaching his chin, though it did little to the sturdy Dwarf. After a few moments of letting the kid get his anger out, Burundi struck him on the head lightly with the haft of his weapon, sending him to the ground, dazed. As the boy's world turned to black, he saw Burundi Malgrimsson turning away, saying. "When you grow older boy, don't be like your father. Trust me." [/hider] 

Hope you enjoy it.