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The door flung open wildly under the force of Broran's shoulder, and he nearly fell in under the dead weight of his unconscious companion. He steadied himself and turned to grab her by the pauldrons of her fine armour, then dragged her to the side of the bed as carefully as he could manage. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and left erratic furrows in the crust and dirt that plastered his skin. Half climbing up onto the bed, he grasped her armour once more and with an almighty grunt he heaved her up onto the bed.
An odd thought struck his mind, and he grinned, looking down at her: "If only all them other lassies was so easy tae get intae me cot!"
He checked her for signs of life. Her breathing was shallow, but regular, her complexion pallid.
He climbed down from the bed, collapsing in a clatter against the near wall, and spoke to her as if she were awake, as if to keep her company.
"Gods Below, woman! Ye're 'eavier 'an a sack of bloody lead. Naer would'a t'ought it from the look o' ye. Some sight we posed fer them haughty folk in the City, what wit' me draggin' ye though the cen'er o' town like a bloody eejit!" He laughed heartilly at the thought of the spectacle, and it was lucky the streets had been nearly empty or they would certainly have been stopped and questioned.
The careworn Dwarf unwrapped the ornate axe that had caused all of this and stared at it with a mixture of sadness and respect. It was clear; Dlara had drawn too deeply from her soul to make this wonderous thing and the power of her faith combined with her arcane efforts had nearly killed her.
Her aim had been to sanctify the axe. An axe made for him, to make him a chosen of the Skullcleavers. The vestements of Moradin would require even more of her efforts and the thought of more harm coming to her chilled his bones. She was like a sister to him, and another trifle with such powers might kill her. A cruel trick of the Gods it would be if Broran had to shoulder such a burden of guilt in order to fulfill his new charge.
"P'raps the Thunder Blessing were'nt no blessing after all. Magicks and finger wagglin' is dangerous buisiness. Bah, ye di'nae 'ave tae do this to yerself fer the sake o' my hairy arse."
Broran's brain swam in such thoughts. Considering her sacrifice, he would have to do her proud. He would have to do all of his Kin proud.
Slowly, exhaustion overtook him, and Broran slept where he lay, propped awkwardly agaist the wall, his plate-and-mail still strapped uncomfortably to his stout frame, the fateful axe held in his hands.
The view of the two armoured, one armed, unconscious Dwarves through the open door presented quite the sight to anyone who walked along that particular corrodor of the Four Lanterns.
An odd thought struck his mind, and he grinned, looking down at her: "If only all them other lassies was so easy tae get intae me cot!"
He checked her for signs of life. Her breathing was shallow, but regular, her complexion pallid.
He climbed down from the bed, collapsing in a clatter against the near wall, and spoke to her as if she were awake, as if to keep her company.
"Gods Below, woman! Ye're 'eavier 'an a sack of bloody lead. Naer would'a t'ought it from the look o' ye. Some sight we posed fer them haughty folk in the City, what wit' me draggin' ye though the cen'er o' town like a bloody eejit!" He laughed heartilly at the thought of the spectacle, and it was lucky the streets had been nearly empty or they would certainly have been stopped and questioned.
The careworn Dwarf unwrapped the ornate axe that had caused all of this and stared at it with a mixture of sadness and respect. It was clear; Dlara had drawn too deeply from her soul to make this wonderous thing and the power of her faith combined with her arcane efforts had nearly killed her.
Her aim had been to sanctify the axe. An axe made for him, to make him a chosen of the Skullcleavers. The vestements of Moradin would require even more of her efforts and the thought of more harm coming to her chilled his bones. She was like a sister to him, and another trifle with such powers might kill her. A cruel trick of the Gods it would be if Broran had to shoulder such a burden of guilt in order to fulfill his new charge.
"P'raps the Thunder Blessing were'nt no blessing after all. Magicks and finger wagglin' is dangerous buisiness. Bah, ye di'nae 'ave tae do this to yerself fer the sake o' my hairy arse."
Broran's brain swam in such thoughts. Considering her sacrifice, he would have to do her proud. He would have to do all of his Kin proud.
Slowly, exhaustion overtook him, and Broran slept where he lay, propped awkwardly agaist the wall, his plate-and-mail still strapped uncomfortably to his stout frame, the fateful axe held in his hands.
The view of the two armoured, one armed, unconscious Dwarves through the open door presented quite the sight to anyone who walked along that particular corrodor of the Four Lanterns.
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