Something that Emilio probably knew nothing about, but that Wēlanandaz had been told tales of since his beard was barely stubble, was that the Dwarven race had quite literally been born under the earth and carved from solid rock; to this end everything they did was deliberate, not slow and pondering as some may have believed, but all was taken with an energetic graduality that was a core characteristic of his folk and one which he now put into practice.

After stepping back onto [i]terra firma[/i] with an inward sigh of relief, allowing no expression to mar his face without, he waited for the human to cease his fussing over 'their' cart animal - the only type of animal that Wēlanandaz could nevertheless endure, seeing then as hard working and somewhat kindred spirits - and waved a hand at Emilio as he gestured toward the cart.

Did this man not realise that he could walk for miles without rest? That unless the cart picked up speed he could not lose it on his feet alone?

Wēlanandaz did two things as they walked, firstly plucking his pipe from his belt and popping the teeth-marked stem between his lips - fully intent on lighting it when they next halted their movement - and secondly taking as much interest in the path ahead and around them as his ganglier compatriot.

It was only when Emilio next spoke that the Dwarf responded, even going as far as to allow the ghost of a smile to pass by and vanish beneath his great beard, the tone in the man's voice and his sarcasm-laced words giving some hidden mirth to the blacksmith even as he propped at a passing shrub with his axe haft.

"You know, Emi," he began in an airy way, rolling his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, "[b]I[/b] often wonder how it is that you and all the other manlings do not simply float off into the sky, you are all filled with so much hot air and trapped wind."

Verbal patter was a game that most Dwarves enjoyed to one extent or another, and Wēlanandaz was an old Dwarf, which meant he enjoyed it all that much more.

When he next spoke though it was with furrowed brow, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked both inside and out at the same time to study their current trail as well as his own memories, and his free hand first adjusting the shield on his back and then giving his beard a stroke.

"I was thinking of an old time, a better time, a time when I was still welcome with my own people..." there was a slight pause before he went on, his voice more serious and quieter than it had previously been, thought no less like two granite chunks rubbing together, "tales my uncle used to tell me, of old wars within the Blackwood, evil kingdoms and wraiths... but more importantly of two [i]Virki[/i] - you would call them strongholds or castles - of my people, somewhere in the west of the woods. They rose long ago, but nothing has been heard of them for some time. I fear for them."

Momentarily lapsing back into silence, Wēlanandaz spoke up once more, his tone back to being partially mocking.

"And so? What did [b]you[/b] learn manling, as you tried to seduce that gruff man's young son with your honeyed words and fancy airs. Where by Runar are we going?"


[@Tony Pajamas][@POOHEAD189]