((This has been writen all in good fun and isn't meant to offend anyone. The best way to enjoy our wonderful and sometimes odd community is to take it light heartedly. ))
Lord Dwalin looked out over the halls of the dwarrows. The old dwarf stood before his throne, taking a hefty gulp from his infinity tankard, known to hold an endless amount of alcohol. Unless someone goes to get new drinks ofcourse as that negates the enchantment made by the Rune-Keeper around the corner. One of Dwalin's aides walked up the staircase leading to his throne. His courtly heavy metal armour shone like a gem, most likely because there was, in fact, a gem on the armour. The aide said to his lord before bowing like is tradition: "My lord Dwalin, a group of dwarves is heading out towards the land called the Shire on a leisurely trip. Even though half of them are in your personal guard and the others are our finest smiths, if I might add. " Dwalin looked down at his aide and spoke to him: "Very well, I will see them on their way." The steward of Thorin's hall knew that these fine warriors and crafters would be sorely missed for the time that they were away. The least he could do was see them out. As the two dwarves walked over towards the gate of their hall, Dwalin remembered to ask his aide about a recent transpired event. "Halingorm, how was the last 'All-races-uniting-event'?" His aide spoke to him, the great steel gate already in sight: "Everything went well. The hobbits got along well with the elves. The swimming in the ice-cold river was enjoyed by all though. Only half of the plate-wearing attendants drowned in the river, none of them Dwarves of course." Dwalin could have guessed it already. Dwarves were trained to swim in the heaviest of armour. It was an essential part of Dwarven childhood, which normally lasted until a close relative was brutally murdered.
The two dwarves finally came upon the great gate of Thorin's halls. Smiths of unparalleled skill forgotten by time had worked on it for many years on end and it took thirty fully-grown Dwarves to put the door in its hinges. Many an enemy had been repelled by these doors, which knew little equal west of the Misty Mountains. Dwalin gazed proudly at it for some time before simply tapping his finger against the metal. The gate swung open into their faces, making both Dwarves fall to the ground, as was tradition. After the dwarves had snickered for a short moment and dusted themselves off they walked outside without further trouble. Dwalin looked out over the small group of dwarves before him. Some wore suitable travelling clothes, though most were in full armour. The first minute was spent with bowing and the nodding of heads, Dwalin doing this multiple times as it was law that he bowed for every 2.41 dwarves that bowed to him. Thankfully, this only took about half an hour and Dwalin soon began speak to them: "I have heard that you all will leave for ‘Ivy Bush Saturday’ in the Shire?" After waiting for two minutes in odd silence, one of the dwarves stepped forth. The dwarf spoke loudly: "Indeed. Even though the journey will take us at least a week we are all very excited. We cannot wait to travel a hundred miles to enjoy three pints, the two songs that we know and four silly dances." As the Dwarf said this the other Dwarves got out their 'self-lighting and filling pipes'. Based on the same idea as the refilling tankard, of course. Dwalin was happy with this traditional sight and before setting them on their journey, he gave them some ancient Dwarven advice: "Do not forget to make a snarky remark and grumble when passing Elven lands, even when there is no Elf in sight." The Dwarf that spoke before thanked the Dwarven steward and said: "Of course not. The racist tales that our fathers told us about the Elves and their narcissistic ways will be retold as well."
As the company set out in the distance, Dwalin looked out over the lands that he stewarded. Goblins were walking in plain sight outside. They had been trouble at first yet now that they paid rent and kept their drum players from practicing after bedtime, none gave them heed. Far in the distance Sarnúr could be seen. Soon a company would set out again to find its cloning-machine, those ruins having been cleansed at least a dozen times. Dwalin took another hefty gulp from his tankard that had conveniently appeared in his hand. Dwarven life was good, Dwalin thought. As long as you have enough ale that is!
