He wore thick clothing, an apron over cloth. He was short, ‘only’ five feet tall you could get shorter, so Dwarves were not exactly as diminutive as their names suggested. His hair hadn’t turned white, only developed more grey than pepper.
A boast that only meant something if you forgot you would always be inferior, and rightly so.īut it had gotten to his head, once. Pelt, formerly of Deríthal-Vel, one of the greatest names alive to wield a hammer-well, among mortal smiths. But they were…getting decent, which meant they would rather miss anything than take their eyes off the steel. He was only half-watching the scrying orb, and he was annoyed at his apprentices for begging to watch it. You could argue his longer lifespan meant he’d chronicled the Grand Strategist’s rise, and he remembered stories about that Drake when he was in his prime. Oh, perhaps he was a Chaldion-expert, in the sense that Chaldion had been one of the people to persuade him to move to Pallass. Regardless, it had little to do with him. Sometimes you needed someone who shut the gates in front of the people screaming to open them. He still had nightmares, and they weren’t about the Crelers. The monster who saw the defenses overrun, heard something coming up-twenty thousand Crelers, maybe. The really bad ones could literally singe your ears if someone with the right Skills said them. Chalk-assed, coal-hearted tunnel weasel were milder epithets. There were other words that could be used. Simply in the pure force of what it meant. Not in the original meaning of the word, which had everything to do with genealogy and was such a Terandrian word.
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