OOC: Dear reader, this exchange is written form the perspective of one Dalbran, Son of Gurrni, recalling a chance meeting he had with a Noldo. Not only is it written with comedic purpose in mind, but it's also to be taken with a beardful of salt, considering Dalbran's usual bravado and selective memory. That being said, enjoy!
It was one of those quiet nights at the tavern, those nights where the only words shared are the soft, whispering cracks of the fire, or the distant moans of the wind outside. Dalbran ran his thumb over the mug’s edge, lifting it to the light to make sure it was clean. He had fallen into a rhythmic routine again, setting aside clean mugs and picking up dirty ones, making his way through the pile. The dwarf expected little to no visitors tonight, it was the beginning of the week, and any travel was going out of town, not in.
He was wrong, of course. The doors creaked open, making way for a few heavy, armoured steps. “Heavy plate.” Dalbran thought. He knew the sound of it well. “We’re closed for the night. Come back tomorrow, after midday.” He said half-mindedly, his attention still drawn to the mugs.
“My governing..” A stern voice called. No, not that. It was mae govannen, a word Dalbran recognized vaguely from his other Elf-friends. His eyes shot to look at the newcomer. He was, by all means, pretentious. A tall, looming figure, clad in shining plate, his hair silver and tied in a plain tail behind his head. Of course, Dalbran judged his breastplate to be of inferior craftsmanship to his own set of armour, and, he reckoned, a handy rock would do sufficient damage. “We’re closed, as I told ye, elgi. Come back tomorrow.”
Another volley of Sindarin came from the Noldo, but these words Dalbran did not understand. Cart-night, that much the dwarf caught. “Ye’re talkin’ nonsense, lad. Speak so I can understand ye.”
“I am looking for Ithilwe, Bring him to me, and tell him Cardanith has come to see him.”
Cardanith, that was the name.
“Not here, laddie. Though ye can come back in a few days and talk to him yerself.”
“Perhaps I will wait for him here. Is Galtharian here? He too should know me.”
Cardanith yapped on pretentiously, with some rants about his superiority interwoven with his request. Or so, at least Dalbran assumed. He only listened to him haphazardly.
“Listen, white-locks, I don’t care who ye are or who ye know. The tavern’s closed, so I suggest ye stop yappin’ and be on yer way. Ye took time of me day off as is!”
The Dwarf shrugged and pointed towards the doors.
The Elf of Unreasonable Height cocked his head to the side, glaring.
“You will speak to me with respect or you will not speak to me at all, little one.”
That was a fatal mistake. Dalbran set his mug down, and crossed his arms across the chest.
“Can’t make out what ye’re sayin’, lad. Might want to hop off yer high horse.”
“Are you threatening me, Dwarf?”
“No.” Dalbran responded, shaking his head. “Though if ye don’t stop interruptin’ me I’ll kick ye so hard yer backside will bounce out of here like a goat’s bladder down the mountain. That’s a warnin’, with yer best interest in mind.”
A moment of silence passed between the two, with Cardanith mustering a face of disgust, and Dalbran simply quirking his brow.
“I will return tomorrow, then.” The Noldo turned, and marched out of the tavern.
“Good! And don’t let the door hit ye on yer way out!”
Dalbran shrugged, already forgetting the exchange, before he returned to the task of the day.
Namely, the mugs still needed cleaning, the kegs had to be tapped and filled, and that’s without even mentioning the enormous undertaking of waxing the floors!
He was, after all, a very busy Dwarf.
