The snow had finally ceased, and the sky shown clear above Dwimmer's head. What met his eyes as he looked over the land gave him no joy. Where before there had been one set of mountains, there now stood two....one of stone and the other of deep, belligerent snow. Well, no matter...since when is a Dwarf afraid of delving?
With wide, flat soles strapped to his furred boots, he had made some little progress southward. Zigilgund stood as a small silhouette on the distant horizon. The terrain had begun to rise, however, and with the snow, a wall of white had formed that there would be no walking over. Dwimmer sighed, his breath rising in a warm cloud as he reached into his pack for a small shovel he carried. Tunnelling went smoothly until, perhaps shaken by a gust of wind, the place where he was digging collapsed with a soft groan and whisper of compacted snow. Quickly, he backed out of the tunnel lest it bury him completely and looking at the stirring drift, he threw down his shovel and yelled,
"Baghdur rakhás!!"
Then he remembered.
It had been a particularly rich commission, so he was quite concerned that it be his very best work. But the metal was conspiring against him, and it would not shape in the manner he wanted no matter how he cajoled and threatened. His frustration reached a peak when the fine chisel he was using snapped one of its corners as he was etching a graceful curve and, his face reddening, he threw down his tools with an oath. Then he saw them...two huge blue eyes peering at him over the far edge of his work bench.
"Orc farts!!" shouted Fairlain, in perfect Khuzdul. Though she had only seen six summers, that child was quicker than lightening. And she was more impressionable than the soft wax that Dwimmer used to mold his fine rings and necklaces. With a shout, Dwimmer hopped off his bench and the chase began. Now Dwarves are good sprinters, but this game would always end the same way, with Dwimmer huffing and puffing in the middle of the floor and the little girl giggling like a boiling kettle. And always, as Dwimmer sat on the floor with a thump, she would come up, throw her arms about his neck, and give him a big "smack" of a kiss on the cheek....
Brushing the snow off his head and shoulders, Dwimmer picked up the shovel one more time.
" Khazad abod amuriz!" he muttered under his steaming breath.
And he began to dig.
