Belin
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Sitting in a corner nursing a large mug of ale, the Dwarf keeps his perceptive ears perked. The Lady Gloriana's missive had mentioned the importance of this far off land. Words like Thassilon and Korvosa just sound as foreign as Orcish to his ears. However, a ruined massive bridge or the ruins of a palace might benefit from study by a practiced Dwarven mason.
But as he tries to remember his training on correctly crafting arched bridges, his mind can't shake the ditty the Viscount had spoken. It wasn't the first time he had heard Ottavio's gilded words, and those poems seemed to stick in his mind. The thoughts of hammering and poetry slowly merge in his thoughts, until a rhythm incorporating both jumble together.
His lips let forth a soft chant, as he imagines the clang of his hammer against the heated, glowing metal on the anvil:
Taldor clang! as a flower, clang! a sweet smelling rosey clang!
Taldor clang! as a beasty, clang! a noble growling lion clang!
Taldor clang! as a feeling, clang! a strong swelling passion clang!
Taldor clang! as the utmost, clang! the thorns, claws, and fervor clang!
Taldor clang! as the gilded, clang! the crown of the Inn'r Sea clang!
Taldor clang! men and women, clang! now rise your time is now clang!
With apologies for a dour (non-charismatic) character mangling Viscount Ottavio's oration
