In depths of the house of the crescent moon.

[cole45]

Deep inside the stone building the housed the The House of The Crescent Moon, A dwarf worked in the searing heat of the forge. Chargoth laid out his gear on a thick rug and took everything apart. Each leather loop was unhooked, each steel catch was unhinged. The pile of mismatched dented armor filled the floor. It was late at night, so there were no smiths inside. Chargoth had no intention of letting the other see his ham handed repair jobs and poor riveting. He'd never been any good at smithing. That was why he'd become a Hunter of the Dead. He was expendable. Karak^Keth Karkon^Vol.

He carefully took out his little hammer and laid each piece of mail across the Anvil. He heated it up and bent it back into place. He used abrasive steel to rub as much of his blood out of the armor. Last moon, he'd been nearly killed, and the black stain had formed in the back of his armor. He peeled this congealed mess out of his armor and fastened more rivets. He wondered sometimes if it was more rivets than mail. He'd replace any single piece of it when it became not worth saving.

The Armor was actually quite new. He'd been given new armor by the guild. Of course, his had come piece meal again. He recovered the metal Legs Derrick used. He got new Arms. Now he just needed a replacement torso piece. Until then his old stand by would do. Of course if none of them lived until next moon, it wouldn't matter.

Old Grand Father Karkon^Vol always said, that dwarves don't fight for a cause. They fight to save the lives of other dwarves. Chargoth wouldn't necessarily only fight for other dwarves. But he was not fighting for a cause. In the coming days, he would do what he was supposed to do. He would die so another could live. Causes didn't matter. They were only words. People mattered. And Chargoth was going to lay his life down so other Havenites would live. Nothing else mattered.

The gruff dwarf finished repairing his things and got himself all back together. He spent a long time at the grinding wheel, sharpening his ax so it would be ready. It was old and well grooved from years of combat. Once he finished he took a long drink of ale.

He was already dead. He died long ago when he became a warrior. Death held no secrets for dwarves. They did not fear it. So he was prepared.