Druin. Hearthguard Candidate.
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Markets are bustling, almost by their very nature. This market is more of an organized bustle - orderly queues are formed at each vendor and foot traffic naturally sorts itself and is respected. A bird up high would see all the glints of light off hair ornaments and the frictionless regularity of it all. Thousands of neighbors politely go about their business with the knowledge that memories are long and that people will and have brought up embarrassing stories and feuds from centuries ago.
This particular day, in earshot around one particular corner, everybody is very particularly interested in those specific vendors today and are very particularly slow to make their purchases. Faces are absolutely not kept in mild expressions and ears are absolutely not tuned to an ever louder argument.
Because while it is gauche to deliberately eavesdrop on family drama, nobody can blame someone who just happens to be in the area. And when a short time later, rumors circulate about seeing a particularly small figure in a cloak leaving with last convoy and sharp eyes see a lack of a particularly small figure in Copperhelm colors walking around, well… There are murmurs in bar corners, quiet grumbling about the disrespect, and occasionally, an even quieter nod of respect given in complete privacy. And one more story to be shared for the next few hundred years.
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A couple of carts make their way across the North, from the newly formed Kraka Drakk. A small dwarf holds the reins to the lead cart as he walks down what could only charitably be called a road. Things were very different from what it was like in the South, as a fresh scar and the heavily armed guards could attest to. But those problems also meant opportunity and for someone fresh to their Mastery, what was a little - ok, a lot - of risk compared to the once-in-a-lifetime chance to mine the first shaft? Also the chance to get as functionally far as possible from where he was born and still be in the Karaz Ankor.
Most merchants focused on the big trades between major Karaks because it was safer and more convenient and
easier.
However, people forgot that not every dwarf lived in a mountain-city, - sometimes it was just easier to set up a settlement if the mine you worked was too far away - and those dwarfs had a need for food and ale and news just like everybody else. And his Master showed him that, to someone willing to put in a bit more road-time, a bag of silver coins could be just as profitable as a handful of gold. With less competition to boot!
Though with all these beasties up here it might be a good investment to look for a good crossbow. Warrior-ing and fighting was never his strong point but pulling a trigger was dead easy. Maybe find a journeyman engineer to help him mount it to his cart so he could fire a heavier bolt.
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A small string of carts is ambushed as they travel along the road.
A whistle goes up, and guards climb down from the carts and go from alert boredom to ready for battle. The goats are quickly chivvied to draw the carts into a defensive line, behind which what few civilians pull out crossbows and quivers of bolts and prepare to fire.
One particular cart pulls away from the rest and sets up right behind the line of guards. This cart has sides with the dull shine of good steel as its owner yanks his seat off and deploys a semi circular rail folded away beneath. A heavy crossbow goes on top as he begins to wind the windlass.
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Dwarves are not one to be too emotionally expressive publicly, but weddings are an exception to that rule.
This wedding is even more exceptional than most: both parties were quite a bit older than the norm, the groom claims and is claimed by no clan, and he is the shorter of the two as well as the one bronze face in the entire crowd. But his side of the aisle is filled with his many friends and his Master's family and while his personal circumstances were a bit odd, no one could find fault with what he presented as his Crafting: a tarp-covered handcart, a thick scroll of parchment, and a handful of grams of paper-like gromil.
The tarp ripped off to a cart filled with gold and jewels, glimmering in the rune-light.
Dramatic, but a handcart's a bit small. A few brows were furrowed on the Elders but they were willing to humor the lad.
The parchment unrolled to the ground, the address of a warehouse and a list of what was inside.
Hmph, its normal goods but a small hill's worth, not too bad. Heavily-bearded faces cleared up and several could be seen nodding as the list was read off.
The sheets of gromil had words chiseled onto them, contracts from a short list of Rhunrikkis for personal commissions in payment for a staggering amount of Elder Drakk's blood.
Utterly ridiculous…and as expected of a Master merchant. There was a stunned silence and then a great uproar filled the hall.
All the while, the groom's eyes had barely left the those of the bride.
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A convoy of carts is making its way across the North, a few days out from Kraka Drakk, a few hours behind the Throng marching to take back Dum. Armies marched on their stomachs and it wasn't like a King was going to figure out how to feed thousands of dwarfs across hundreds of miles personally. Nope, like any smart King, they delegated! Give someone who knew what they were doing a couple of chests of gold, tell them what the schedule and route was, and let them figure out the details.
And with his youngest just finishing his Journeying he could send letters to all his children to get everything ready ahead of time, across each Karak they passed. Wonderfully efficient this whole family business thing was. Bonus, he got to spend more time with his wife as she followed her Thane.
Good money, a good cause, and with the best of company - he was content with the world.
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Dwarves are not one to be too emotional expressive publicly, but funerals are an exception to that rule.
This funeral is like much like any other funeral - stoic faces, blank faces, and the occasional shaking hand. The body and soul was already taken care of by a priest of Gazul, but burials are for the dead, funerals are for the living. To remember those who passed on, to keep an eye on those left behind.
Speeches pass by in a blur, and when everybody else has left, one is still in his seat - staring blankly forward. Centuries of memories pass by in his head, a mere blink of time cut short.
And in the stark clarity of silence - the too-bright light, the dreadful aloneness - a dwarf allows himself to cry for the loss of all that was and all that could have been.
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He was going through the motions, still lost in his own grief, it took until he almost lost money on a trade until he finally passed the rest of his contracts to his subordinates and full control of his organization to his daughter -
she always was the sharpest, just like- This was for the best anyway, his sons needed the space to grow into anyway -
he could barely look them in the face without seeing reminders of…
Instead of puttering about a house that was no longer a home, he saddled up his personal cart and goats and just wandered around the North. Many of his earliest dirt roads had become either full fledged trade routes to settlements in their own right, or had disappeared in one or the other of various troubles that frequented the North. But dwarfs were a hardy lot and many of his contacts eventually popped up again in a new location, and he had a list of old friends to catch up and see what they were up to.
After…after, it took him a few short months to put on a strong face for the world. After a few decades of traveling, he was getting close to fooling himself as well. Decades of wandering and spending months at a time with old friends and carrying a few goods here and there (just to keep his hand in) had helped him center himself.
And here he stood, just outside the gates of Kraka Drakk, staring at the beginnings of yet another settlement. And the home of one of the most infamous Rhunrikki. And if the stories were correct, the patron of the Hearth Guard that were wandering around helping the fallen of the North, and apparently recruiting again. And he wondered if they could use an ex-merchant amongst their number.
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A short history of Druin, exile of Copperhelm. Father to two sons and a daughter. Widower. Master Merchant. Founder and ex-head of one the largest merchant organizations in the North. A dwarf with friends high and low and all over, and looking for a cause to devote himself to.
Functionally, he's gotten very good with a crossbow - he's about as short and small as you can get as a dwarf while still being considered an adult. Being born into a very traditional warrior/smithing clan, he's had the brains and the heart but not the body, and has had a chip on his shoulder ever since. His personal cart is steel-lined and has a simple rail that allows him to brace a heavy crossbow on top of it, a simple work around to allow him to use a weapon otherwise too unwieldy for dwarfs his size (not a siege weapon, the crossbow equivalent of a large rifle with a mount). Between that and his hired guards he's never felt the need to become a much better fighter.
What he brings to the table is an encyclopedic knowledge of the settlements of the North, a tendency to make friends, and centuries of honing the art of knowing people who know people. In a straight up fight he's terrible to passing, where he shines is in solving logistical problems - coordinating disaster response and the supply side of search and rescue.
