Snorlikson's home

The stein hits the stone table heavily, like so many times before on this evening. Throngor Snorlikson wipes the foam of the ale off his full black beard, "Aye, now that is real ale."

Another dwarf, younger, but not by much, enters the room, two more sturdy dwarven steins in his hands, "To the dwarves, brother. May we all die while purging this world of the greenskin scum."

"Too many have died already," answers Throngor, downing yet another of the rich dwarven ales, "and in the end what does it serve? The humans are near as bad. Then there are the ratlings crawling through man's excrement, their foulness poisoning everything that they touch."

Thordrin Snorlikson pulls out a pipe, packing it with rich dwarven pipeweed, "You are just bitter because your mule died," he says as he smiles and lights his pipe.

Throngor lights his own pipe, inhaling the sweet smoke of the dwarven mix, "It was a damn good mule," he says, smiling, relaxed and at home in his brother's presence.

"And your human friends. What of them?"

Throngor smiles, "Not as good as my mule," he laughs a short bit, then scowls, tamping down the pipeweed in his pipe, "No, really, they are a decent lot, if a bit exciteable. Of all I feel most at home around the thief, Rudiger. He is a quiet one and fairly honest about his intentions. The knight and the priest, both growing in might, seem too full of hubris. I fear one day a wedge will drive them and us all apart. Humans."

Thordrin nods as if he understands.

"It is funny, you know," Throngor says, thinking of their last foray into the sewers of Middenheim, "the bravest of the humans seem to be the thief and the wizard. Neither has good, solid dwarven armor, yet neither will hesitate to jump to the front line of combat. I trust them both. Our knight, however, I have my doubts about. It may be a human weakness, but warriors should never fear a fight and hang in the rear. As if dwarven armor could fail him. Maybe he should indulge in some riding lessons."

Thordrin breaks out in long, deep laughing, joined quickly by his brother as both think about the story Throngor has already told, and probably embellished.

"I am giving up mining, brother."

Thordrin gives Throngor a deep look, "Good. It is about time you followed in Father's footsteps."

"All I do is fight now anyway. I may as well train in the Dwarven tradition."

Thordrin rises, returning to the table quickly with two more steins full of foaming ale, "Father, were he alive, would be proud," he states, offering a toast to their dead father, Snorlik Ironskull, Giantslayer, "and the blessings of Grimnir upon you, brother."

Throngor downs what turns out to be the last of the dwarven ale that night. As his eyes roll back up into his head and he passes out his last thoughts are of his father, and how he prays he never must follow in those dark and tortured footprints.