"I use some o' the deeper stuff. Usually the glowy sorts... Coldlights, we called 'em, 'cos they didn't have heat like fires." He grins somewhat sadly. "An' often we use - used some oats as well, when we can get 'em. It's harder now than in m' father's time. Usually, though, we jus' make do wit' what we can get to grow. A lot o' mushrooms, a few differen' molds. An' so on."
Angrin runs a hand through his beard, contemplatively. "Where d'ye come from, then? I'm from Varrok's Deep..." His expression hardens.
As Talon proffers an elbow and a name to Dwunderbran, momentarily lost in his raucous song, his tangled mane of braids and fiery locks sway and bounce with a bit of zeal as he offers his nodding-bowing thanks to the ranger for the timely aid. Dwunderbran begins to ponder the name a moment, his lips pursing to speak before something catches the back of his knee and brings him down hard on the table. At first bewildered and caught off-guard, the subsequent anger that twists the warrior's face is plain for all to see—a rage made all the worse as someone dares accuse him of drunkenness this early in the festivities.
As he finds his feet with Dolgrin's aid, he jerks free of the cleric's hands in short order, hands retrieving weapons from holster rings in an instant as an assail of spittle through clenched teeth herald the harsh words that follow: "Git yer spindly arms offa me ye nancy fop!" Axes in hand, Dwunderbran's eyes seize the stone-covered dwarf foolish enough to assault him in the midst of his awe-inspiring rendition of a dwarven classic. "Ah pray to yer Smith-Da' above they dug holes 'nuff fer ta lay more beards a-still 'n yonder tomb—tha funeral procession's fixin' to be a might shorter an' it were."
Conflict seems a foregone conclusion, but it seems the cleric's gambit finally pays off. A half step is all the crazed dwarf manages before he stops in his tracks, wordlessly mouthing the name that has been given to him twice now. "Hraggir Skuldafn? Hraggir. . .Hraggir?" Eyes float aloft to the vaulted contours of the meadhall as the name finally clicks, his weapons gratefully returned to holster so his hands are free to scratch chin and head alike. Then, ultimately—and finally—it clicks. Drooping brows raise quickly and eyes widen as he blurts out, "Oooh! Hraggir? Bolka's braided chastity, I dinnae know it were tha' greybeard's day o' mournin'!"
Bold steps carry Dwunderbran past the nearly prostrate forms of Daelric and Dolgrin atop the dais to lock eyes with Vigar with as much intensity as sincerity. "Hraggir done right by me family, an' honored meself when I was nary more 'an a squirt from me ma's cavern. If'n me ruckus sullied 'is day, ah'm shamed truer an' a sot what pissed 'is breeches." The roll of years had been many since Dwunderbran had last laid eyes on Vigar. He was far younger then, during The Provings. And his father had been the one to personally reward and honor the much younger Dwunderbran for his exploits during that fateful day. He needed to right himself in the eyes of the son, if for no other reason than honoring the name of the father.
Nodding solemnly, Dwunderbran raises his clenched left hand to breast just over his heart and raises his right forearm rigidly before his chest before nodding curtly to Vigar. Though the salute is unmistakably of Druman origins, it is a gesture meant to convey the highest respect to the one for whom it is intended—a stilled heart and an arm offered freely. Though not dwarven, it is an old pledge; a pledge earnestly promising faithful and worthy service until such a time that the debt is paid in full.
As Dwunderbran thunders past, he lets out a sigh of relief that he had not incurred the dwarf's wrath before he stands at attention at the base of the stairs up to the Stonelord's table.
Nearly clove a kinsman in two over THAT? And he claims he's NOT drunk yet? Maybe this is why I felt the need to show meself here...bones might break 'fore the feast does...
Hyrin had, up to this point remained very calm, treating the funeral with a dignity she felt it deserved. Some of the others were in a louder mood, but like so often, she preferred the more subdued tones.
Slowly sipping from the mug of honeymead, she observed Dwunderbran barreling past. Silently raised the mug to the honor of the deceased yet again. He certainly had earned the honors he now received. And just barely avoided spilling some of the sweet liquid when she flinched as he closed a little bit closer than she was entirely expecting.
Angrin glances at the foul-mouthed dwarf who was trying his best to thank and apologize to Vigar, and shakes his head with a sigh. "Damned fool of a dwarf, he is. An' he sounds pretty blasted dangerous to keep 'round." After a moment, he brightens. "I'll bet he's hilarious when ye're drunk, though. Shame we're not, otherwise this'd be laughed off an' no one to remember it tomorrow mornin'."
He looks at Isoldda with a sigh. "I don' suppose ye have any tales to tell o' his good ol' master o' coin, Hraggir, do ye?"
With all the commotion Grunyar's eyes start to nervously search for the nearby exits in case an all out brawl erupts while his mind wonder if he should not have gone home after the funeral instead.
Stop trying to fit in Grunyar, this whole thing may have been a mistake. Wearily eyeing Vulgarbeard.
Err... Sister Maven, how long does these types of celebration usually last?
Angrin laughs. "Aye, as much as any o' Varrok's Deep. Well," he corrects himself, "Less'n some others, but I kin use me rapier with a fair hand, and I ne'er was a poor shot wit' my crossbow." He gestures to each weapon, respectively. "I'm more o' a tactician, I like to think. I do so loves me some traps." His eyes glitter. "Wait until ye hear this 'un. I was goin' down into the Darklands -terrible place, by the way- to git the Deep's priests an ol' relic o' Folgrit's priesthood. Some o' the blasted elves were already in the ruins where it was at, though, so I had to lead 'em on a merry chase..."
He goes on to describe how he led them through the tunnels into a variety of traps and pratfalls (he bursts out laughing as he remembers the expressions on their faces when he jury-rigged a trap that flung a piece of animal dung at their leader), until he finally ran by what he recognized as a room of great importance in the temple itself.
"So, there I was, standin' outside a big durned door, with drow breathin' down me neck, and wonderin' whether I dared try to open it an' let them in." He pauses, eyes glittering and a tight grin on his face. "Then I saw the trigger. It wasn't big, but it clued me in that there might be a few traps on the door I could use. So I picked the lock without the trap goin' off, pushed the door open slightly, an' bolted off behind a stalagmite. The drow came 'round the bloody corner, thought I went in, and entered." He grins viciously. "I dunno what happened in there, but I heard a lot o' screamin' as soon as the door shut behind 'em on its own. Fortunately, it did close behind 'em on its own... Otherwise, I'd never've come back. Figured out it was a damned death room!" He shudders.
So are you a private clan chronicler or do you work for the temple keeping the rolls of our dominion?
He winces as he hears Dwunderbran. And leans up a bit to see what happens.
I am an Oath Taker. And I wonder if there are about to be oaths made this day regarding that one.
He turns his attention back to Marla before him awaiting her answer.
"How long?" She wonders aloud, as much to herself as Grunyar. "Well, can't say's I've been to many funerals in my time, but depends a great deal on the stature an' honor o' the fallen, I s'pose. Hraggir Skuldafn was quite the Dwarf, to hear the tales told. Could be cousins from all 'round come to feast fer days on end, for all I know. Could be as soon as Lord Vigar Skuldafn grows weary o' the singin' and drinkin, but who knows?"
Fer days on end... Grunyar whispers dismayed to himself.
Shimon starts to tap on the table. A steady, rhythmic tapping, like the swinging of a pick.
Looks over at Shimmon sitting at the next table over.
Join us cousin. I am Magnus Bjornsson. Have a drink.
Daelric notices Dolgrin come up beside him and lower down onto one knee too, "He has a lot of respect too. A very honourable man." He glances back up to Vigar and then lowers his eyes again, as one who dare not look upon royalty. Just as he looks down, a smelly and loud dwarf barges passed him. Daelric looks up to see Vulgerbeard approaching Vigar quickly and with a mission, automatically Daelric's hand goes to his axe and holds onto the handle. But when Vulgerbeard stops in front of Vigar and performs some strange salute he releases his grip on his hand and looks to Dolgrin and speaks quietly that no-one else can hear, but loud enough to be heard over all of the commotion, "I haven't seen that salute before, any idea what it is?"
Shimmon walks over and sits down by Magnus. My name is Shimon. I am a miner.
"Nay, but I'm glad 'e chose ta react this way than what I expected. If'n what I know o' Dwunderbran be true, Rockhead's lucky ta be alive, as am I..." Dolgrin responds in a similar hushed tone.
Nods and extends an arm. After looking the miner over he answers.
I am an Oath Keeper of Kols. It is good to meet you. Have some mead.
Grabs three flagons off a passing tray passes them round.
Have either of you a toast for the dead?
Daelric nods, "Aye, I know what you mean. They both seem rather ... volatile, wouldn't you say? I would hate to get on either of their bad sides." Daelric rips his bread in half and hands a half to Dolgrin, "So where do you hail from Dolgrin?"
If at any point Vigar looks like he is about to turn as speak to Dolgrin, the audience or myself, then I will stop what I am doing and listen attentively. If it looks like he will be ignoring the pair of us kneeling, then I shall rise after a few minutes and head to a quieter table and invite Dolgrin with me to talk.
Looking around the room he sees the Protector Daelric and throws his fist into the air by way of greeting once he turns from the high table. He remembers meeting the hero as in training.
Late as always, Rindovaan enters the hallway with what looks to be a shiny new sword, larger than most wielded by dwarves and seemingly better suited to an Ogre or something of similar size.
As the blonde but red tipped haired Dwarven man walks through, he immediately holds his breath and winces at the smell of one man's unclean beard.
Those watching the odd haired Dwarf might notice something engraved in his sword.
Many Dwarves take pride in their stench, but I prefer to smell nice. I like my health and I like my teeth!
Those in the room can clearly hear the sickening and high pitched sound of scraping metal - a sound grating enough to make anyone with hearing cringe, as the man drags his shiny oversized weapon across the ground and towards the table where the Stone-Lord and other Dwarves seem to be gathering.
Saying nothing in passing, Rindovaan shifts a chair over and plonks himself down next to Daelric.
Tee's ar traabling dai fer'us. 'nuva sol larst, bart'i gaas wee'v'all garts ta goh sum dai. Wha tis yar naaim lardy?
Maven grimaces at the scraping sound as the newcomer scores the stone floor with his massive blade. PLEASE, lad, pick that blade up. You'll dull the edge and ruin the decor all in one blow. Makes the ears ring somethin' fierce."
Where the devil did he pick up a blade that monstrous to begin with?
Quint Wanders slowly through the crowds, having kept to himself so far. He may be from Highhelm originally, but he has not dwelt in the sky citadel for decades, not since his parent's unsavory practices were discovered. He has stayed away from the place as much as possible since, but his mentor and adopted father always seemed to find way to send him back.
Right now he was representing Gondul Chiselbone, Master Artisan at the wake; the aged dwarf has begged out of it, claiming his infirmities to get out of attending the post-funeral celebrations. He insisted Quint go in his place however, and so the bookish dwarf found himself here amongst the warriors and clansmen, the great unwashed masses of dwarf-kind. One fool dwarf didn't even seem to know where he was, causing a commotion over by Vigar's place of honor.
Quint sniffs in disgust, sipping at his tankard of ale--his first and only--before moving on again. Keep moving, that was the trick of it; look like you had somewhere to be. His feet would be sore by the end of it, but better that than some drunkard deciding to engage him in conversation.
As he moves amongst the tables something does catch his ear however, a tale of traps and Drow. Well, the Drow didn't interest him too much, he much preferred the sky above his head, but he told a good tale, and he was curious where the man's purported escapades occurred.
"Excuse me. Quint Chiselbone." he introduced himself with a bow to Angrin and Isoldda. "I couldn't help overhearing part of your tale. Are you a professional tomb-breaker then?" he asks, his tone quite polished with a cosmopolitan accent. The dwarf before them is quite short, in good health, with a healthy weight to him. He wears the clothes of an artisan, clearly of non-dwarven make; is finely groomed with a relatively short, but voluminous and well combed black beard. A pocketwatch sticks out of one pocket, and a small mask, made of silver with a glyph upon it's forehead hangs upon a fine chain around his neck.
"Aye, ye might call it that..." Angrin nods, after a moment of consideration. "Though I never did break any tombs, ye see. Mostly just ol' settlements and ruins from when we all lived in the Darkland's."
Thinking back a few moments ago, Rin slightly chuckles to himself, more than likely coming across as a little odd, having only just sat down yet is already laughing at his own thoughts.
Lass, this is a fine piece of art. One of my best in fact! It would have been better if I didn't have to drag it around everywhere, but the only time it can leave the ground is when the momentum of my swing makes it so. Besides, I've folded the steel in this blade seven hundred and seventy four times, and if anything, dragging it along this stone floor will only sharpen it. Hahaha!
Hyrin had, up to this point remained very calm, treating the funeral with a dignity she felt it deserved. Some of the others were in a louder mood, but like so often, she preferred the more subdued tones.
"Evening. I'm Talon Darkslayer, I didn't catch your name?"
"Ahh, so plundering Tar Taargadth. I must admit I find myself rather more intrigued with some of the surface nations. The Azlanti were fascinating, I itch to get my hands on a solid piece of their work. The Jistka Imperium has occupied my attention for some time as well, it's really a shame how much has been lost to time." Quint's enthusiasm is obvious, the rotund dwarf settling into his chair, his earlier displeasure completely gone now he's found someone who shares his interests, if only tangentially. He looks to Isoldda, hiding a look of distaste at her response to Angrin's story.
Marla takes the mug of mead and takes a small gulp before answering Magnus. "My family does commissions, but our mission is to record the genealogy of the Dwarven people, and our achievements, in service to Torag and the King." she says, then takes another drink. "And we don't falsify records!" she adds, then takes another drink. Her cheeks flush pink. She nods at Shimon as he joins them.
"Marla Gund'dur." she says, then takes another drink.
"Does that mean that you would have records of any significant research in the arcane sciences Marla? Kal'Tos takes a sudden interest in the conversation if it may lead to him getting access to others research into the arcane sciences.
Maven's ears perk up after catching key phrases amidst the clamor. Geneology? Service to Torag? She manages to edge over a bit closer to the conversation of history, listening in to see if any exciting stories are exchanged.
He nods at Marla's protestations of not falsifing documents.
I understand that quite well. Many fail to see that even though you may not be chasing honor as they do you still have honor of your own. Much more in fact than any who ask you to exaggerate their deeds. An entire clans honor must be without blemish to be chroniclers for our race.
He stands and bows to Marla before sitting again.
A toast to you Marla and to your clan for their tireless under appreciated work. And should someone ask you to fake that which should not be seek me out and I will bring the matter into the light.
He raises his flagon for the toast.
"Ahh, so plundering Tar Taargadth. I must admit I find myself rather more intrigued with some of the surface nations. The Azlanti were fascinating, I itch to get my hands on a solid piece of their work. The Jistka Imperium has occupied my attention for some time as well, it's really a shame how much has been lost to time."
Hearing a subject more in line with his interests Grunyar approuches the nearby group hoping that some conversation will help the next hours pass faster.
Hi... errr... sorry, I overheard a mention of the Azlanti. Yes? Any chance you have also visited the Thassilonian ruins in Magnimar? Before the city fell I mean. I understand the old human empire had mastered rune-magic.Hmm, how do I know that? Did I read it somewhere?
"Aie. I gots a tale or two. Walked all tha way from Janderholff, through tha underdark, past dem hated drow, pushed through n' a demon incursion, fought wit and fought gainst tha damnable Duergar, met strange aberrations the likes o' you would neva believe! An alone. Alone fer years on tha journey, does strange things to a dwarf, tha kinda solitude. Ye'd forget your own name if it wernt etched on your armor, scary thought indeed." He nods solemnly.
"Hmm. So what'n shall I bore ya wit today? Tha time I waded through ah horde o dem goblins, not stopping fer'n a second nor relenting a step till I was clear through tha other side an even then kept on a going? Na, that it be uninteresting to here slaughter o tha weak greenies, it gotta be something else. Tha time I fought aside the Duergar, shield ta shield, n toe ta toe against a trio o Rock Trolls? Ha! Tha be a good one! Ahhh I know. I Will tell ye tha tale o tha Svirfnebilin."
He settles back a bit, content in knowing that he has a captivated audience. Rockjaw may not be much to look at and he may be gruff, but he sure knows how to tell a tale.
"I was heading yon my journey, ever onwards when I heard tha sounds o a commotion in tha distance. Speeding up an heading towards tha sounds o tha fracas an wha do I find? Why I come across a gaggle o deep gnomes an they be in dire straits, fer sure. they all be mages o some sort, really don know what kind and really don care but there be a group o them, 7 left standin by my recollection an a good 8 dead round them. How they managed it I ner could figure out but they managed to walk right inta a rout o flail snails an they were surrounded by dem. Tha worst o it was tha them blinkin gnomes were as idiotic as them snails is dense. They be flinging magic round like twas candy onna wee lads nameday! I dunno ifn you know but them snails be something special. Ya see, them shells ona them backs ken warp magic an reflect it like a fine gem reflects tha light. Tha spells o them gnomes was flying every which way! Bouncin an reverberating amongst them an striking friend an foe. Worst was some of it went up." He says glancing at the ceiling high above their heads and gestures in a downward spiralling pattern.
"Ya see, there be a whole lot more o them onna the top, just hangin there like gravity don exist! Among them was a few smaller ones, thar young I imagine, an one o them got struck, knocked clean off and crashing to the floor! Well them snails didnt seem to like that much an turned as one on the stupid gnomes who were still flinging away wit tha spells! Next thing ta happen was tha snails started ta sink down from tha celling onna these great threads o mucus jus like a spider! I never seen tha like! Well I charged headlong inta them first snails I could reach, trying to get ta the gnomes what was still standin an yelled " His outburst caused more than a few dwarves that were leaning in too close to jump back. Placing his hands on the table and starting to push, slowly inching it along the ground accompanied by scraping.
"You ever try an push a snail tha size o a boulder an weighing a good 800 pounds? Course ya hadnt, ya softies! Well I tell ya, twas the hardest thing I ever had ta push, but push I did, all the way ta the middle where the gnomes be terrified, tha little sissies. Stupid sissies is what they are! Well another interesting thing about them snails. They got these giant flails onna the end of them eyestalks instead o eyes an boy can they swing them! Tha entire way I be pushing them I hear this rhythmic poundin like tha best o tha dwarven war drums onna my back. Thump thump thump thump thump, an away they go, thump thump thump. Almos destroyed my armor onna my back ta say nothing bout my spine!
Well when I reach tha middle I tell them gnomes ta follow me an ta get out o there an I keep pushin an pushin an pushin an pushin. No idea how far I gon an tha snail poundin away at ma back an ima at my limits yet I keep pushin. Then I realize that them gnomes be callin for me ta stop, we had gon right outa there an could escape! Not a single snail perished yet only 3 o tha gnomes made it tha day an I be as sore as I ever been in ma life yet we lived! It be a proper display o how ta do it to tha gnomes and a good chance for them ta spread tha word, ifn they even lived ta tell tha tale, them stupid sissy gnomes..."
By now he had drawn a large crowd and no small amount of respect from those listening in.
Praise be to Kols, may he keep me ever faithful.
His hand goes to his holy flask and strokes it.
Yes to Kols may all we meet be as faithful.
He looks over at Shimon.
So tell us more about yourself miner.
Angrin looks at the rotund dwarf with a polite nod. He'd heard of the Azlanti before - who hadn't? - but the Thingywotsit Imperium was a name he'd never heard of before. "I'm Angrin Thronebearer, trapsmith and brewer. Who d'ye be?" Clearly an educated man of some stripe or another, at least. Hopefully he wouldn't get too in depth about his studies, which, while interesting, were hardly the topic for a funeral feast.
Marla nods at Kal'Tos as she holds her mug in both hands. "I've discovered interesting things. Runes and memory. Links to our ancestors." she says.
Careful girl.
Magnus' toast makes her blush. "I'm nothing special... certainly not...*mumblemumbleintohermug*" she takes another drink and puts her hand on the haft of the antique greataxe that is leaning against the table next to her.
RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Getting to Vigar Skuldafn winds up being a laboriously frustrating affair, despite his relative close proximity. Dwarven tradition asserts a certain level of procedure for addressing not only the head of a family, but also a mourner, and also a high-ranking stone-lord of Torag. Three wholly unrelated tiers manage to find a confluence of formality in this funeral environment.
First, the priests of Torag must be greeted on approach and permission (though always granted) to speak with the stone-lord requested. Then, of course, a kind word or two about the deceased must be spoken, followed by a statement of lineage to ensure that it would even be proper for Vigar to be approached.
About fifteen minutes into that nonsense Vigar comes down off of the dais, pushes priests, beaurocrats and well-wishers alike aside and rubs one hand tiredly over his brow. "Apologies," Vigar of all people offers, "some of our kin are obsessed with structure beyond good taste."
Looking to Daelric, Vigar's brows furrow and his head tilts to the side as if inspecting Daelric's nose, of all things. "Moreith, yes?" It's that look of familiarity and Vigar's markedly relaxed nature that seems to defuse the situation regarding the possible insult. After that recognition a look is shot past Daelric towards Dwunderbran and Dolgrin. With a hand briefly clapped on Daelric's shoulder, Vigar moves over to the other two dwarves.
"Lads," he exhales a tired sigh, "you worry a bit too much about appearances for who's funeral you're at." That sentiment seems to earn some consternation from the older, more stoic priests present that seem obsessed with their senses of pride and tradition. "You may not'f heard this... One of my father's finest hours -- if you asked him -- was when he got black-out drunk and pissed himself at the funeral of High Cleric Yoskul in front of a hundred and seventy-nine mourners thirty-three years ago."
All of the priests of Torag gape slightly in unison.
"He told that damned story at every family gathering and is likely boring Torag himself with it at this very moment." Vigar's expression eases into a smile, and he steps close to Dwunderbran and Dolgrin, resting a hand on each of their shoulders. "What I mean to say is, my father was an honorable, cantankerous old man that was not too proud to admit he had faults." Slapping those shoulders gently, Vigar laughs and shakes his head before stepping back.
"I think, so far," Vigar looks over to Daelric, "this has been a fine funeral fot him."
_________
As Vigar stands and heads towards Daelric, he lowers his head even further. It is when he can feel him looking at his face that he looks up and meets his eye, "Yes m'lord." When he places his hand on Daelric's shoulder he looks down again, but it is obvious he feels he has been honoured, both by touch and that he knew his name. He doesn't make another noise until Vigar has finished speaking and looks back at him, "I am pleased that m'lord has the kindness to enjoy the occasion."
Once Vigar heads back to his seat Daelric waits for him to be seated before he stands again and turns to Dolgrin when he see's an old friend wave to him. "Excuse me Dolgrin, an old friend of mine has just shown himself, would you like me introduce you? He is another follower of Kols, but I am sure he would like to make your acquaintance." With that Daelric heads over to Magnus, making sure not to bump into anyone or spill many of his water. Once he gets to his old friend he holds his hand out and grasps Magnus' arm, holding the forearm just below the elbow with his hand, as Magnus does the same back"Greetings again old friend, are you enjoying yourself? The evening has just improved considerably for me, as you saw." With that he releases Magnus' arm and nods to the others at the table, "Greetings, I am Daelric Morieth, at your service." Daelric then takes a seat next to Magnus and starts to drink his water again, as well as reaching out for another loaf of bread.
As he is eating another man comes and sits by him, a man with an ungodly screeching sound. He turns to see a dwarf holding possibly the largest weapon he has seen one of his folk hold, but not the biggest he has seen. "Uh ... hello. That is a very painful sound, why not lift the blade up a bit so it doesn't screech so?"
Isoldda appears to have been captivated by the tale. She leans in chin on her upturned palms, eyes batting at Rockjaw. She jumps back with a "Torag's b&+#$!~s!" when the heavily armored dwarf yells 'by thundar!' After he finishes her eyes go wide "Woowww. I wish I had flails instead of eyeballs, that would be AWESOME!" she says, swinging her arms around in a vague imitation of what she imagines they would look like. "So, skull-shield, what about you?"
"Thank ye sir, but I couldn't sit by n' risk 'n all out brawl break out at the funeral o' yer father."
As he departs, he thuds his closed fist over his chest in salute, like a hammer striking an anvil, and turns with the others. At Daelric's request, he replies, "I'd be 'onored, lad."
He then looks up at the rapidly filling hall. This could go on for a while, I better get comfortable. He says to those gathered at this table, "Name's Dolgrin, servant o' Torag." He then takes a seat on the other side of Daelric.
Oh really Marla tell me more. I am fascinated by our history and have never had the chanceto hear a chroniclers personal insights before. You must know so many things.
Perhaps she knows of the shadow... I will see what she knows and then decide.
He smiles at her and lifts his flagon in a small toast to her knowledge.
Now in conversation with Daelric, Rindovaan smirks.
Pleseur t'meet y'lahd. A'wud hol'di toff th'grond but'is jus teu h'vy...less ye wan mi tuh swing'it, s'only thehn dus it leev th'grond! Muh naimm's Rinduhvahn bah'th'wei, Rinduhvahn Av'rack.
With Vigar in front of him, the blonde Dwarf looks up and says M'sor f'ye lahs. Haw'kin a'healp?, before straightening himself up and touching his hair, in an attempt to look respectful in such a time of loss.
Daelric looks to the dwarf with the sword and looks puzzled, "I can't understand a word your saying." He looks around to his table companions, "Can you understand him?"
Thn y'naht lis'nin ar'd'nuhf Da'ric.
Ah'sed s'pleseur t'meet y'lahd. A'wud hol'di toff th'grond but'is jus teu h'vy...less ye wan mi tuh swing'it, s'only thehn dus it leev th'grond! Muh naimm's Rinduhvahn bah'th'wei, Rinduhvahn Av'rack.
Rin smiles at his fellow Dwarf, hoping his words came out clearer this time.