Dalbran Gurnisson had the mother of all headaches. So loud and painful was the thumping in his skull, that, for a moment, he could swear he was sleeping beneath the anvils of the forge, and not on the thick, oaken table of the Brewery. The dwarf let out a pained groan as he lifted his head, his brow lowering to shield his eyes from the midday sun. The Hall was a mess of emptied tankards, overturned chairs and tables, plates scattered across the floor, and bits of bread, cheese, and meat littered amongst the unruliness of the Brewery. So it was, after each celebration of Durin’s Day, when his brothers and he took to drinking. They were strong lads now, their beards reaching their chest. Just like ma said, they’d all grow up into fine Dwarves, mannered, and well-behaved. He was bound for a scolding once he got home, that was sure. “Well, let’s get it done, then.” Dalbran murmured, and then heaved himself from the table. Throwing his head, and mane of ginger hair back, he took a moment to gather his bearings, and hopped off the bench. The Dwarf waved goodbye to Vilk, one of the Brew-masters who now took to cleaning the place, and entered into that damned, blinding midday sun. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, squinting. Dwarves were already up and about, the miners marched in long lines toward the tunnels, the merchants were already posted on their wooden stores, and the smiths had begun tending to the forges hours before. It was unusual, though, to see the Iron Hills stirring so late, but such was the case after each Durin’s Day. The kindred would spend a night in song and laughter, then tend to their aching heads and ruffled beards in the morning.
Dalbran descended down the shallow steps of the Brewery, and began his track home. About him, voices swelled as he passed, vaguely familiar faces, all pale and sunlit, would greet the young dwarf, some cherry and high, others, much as himself, crestfallen and grumpy. He offered them all a simple nod, before returning his gaze back to the ground, trying to shake off the headache. There, out of a sudden, came a crash, as the dwarf collided with something. No, collided with someone. In fact, he had collided with what surely had to be the most beautiful of all the lassies in the Iron Hills. “Watch where you’re going, lad! I think you might have unsettled my braid!” She said, tilting down the pick up the stray loaves of bread that poured forth from her basket. “Uhhh... My apologies, lass! I was in uh.... deep though!” Dalbran responded, then offered his widest, most dashing grin. “Deep In thought? Well, you don’t look a thinker. No offence.”
“Well... I was thinking of our lost holds! Of all the lost hoards! And if reclaiming those is worth the life we’ve made here!” He laughed, then twisted one of the longer braids in his beard. “I think of it quite often, indeedn, lass- uhh...”
“Bini. Bini Valsdottir. At your service.”
Bini. He liked that name.
“Dalbran Gurnisson! At yours.” The young dwarf bowed deeply, even if his head protested, and offered a hand with collecting the loaves.
“Dalbran Gurnisson? Son of Gurrni Ironhelm, yes? Were you the one that stole the kegs off of old Balf last Durin’s Day?”
“Well, yes! Yes I was, though it was done with noble intent! It was done to settle a bet, you see.”
“A bet? Well, that sure makes it better. I was afraid I had just met at thief.” Bini giggled, slapping Dalbran on the shoulder lightly. “Well, I fear I cannot bear all these loaves myself. Would you be a proper gentle-beard and help me with carrying these home?”
“I am nothing if not a gentle-beard!” The dwarf grinned. “I shall refrain from stealing, I swear on my berad.”
“Well...” Bini sighed, and plopped the basket into his hands. “Shuffle about then, we’ll be late!”
The two beards waddled down to the lower halls, making light conversation. Noon was already past them, and the sun how threatened to disappear behind the jagged peaks of the mountainside.
“This is the place, Gurnisson.” Bini shifted, and promptly yanked the basket from his clutch. “Thank you, I will count these to make sure they are all there. No thievery will go down on my watch!” She laughed, and smiled modestly at Dalbran. “Well, I better get going, lest Valaya shaves my beard!” He responded, failing to hide a dumb grin beneath his beard.
“Well, may your feet always find stone, Dalbran, Son of Gurrni.”
“And may Mahal watch you, Bini, Daughter of Val.”
The two Dwarves parted awkwardly, one waddling down towards the stone dwellings, and the other working to unlock the gate that stood before her.
“Dalbran?” Bini said, pausing a moment.
“Uh.. Aye?” He turned, a glimmer of confusion across his features.
“I fetch the loaves from the bakery every morning. Sometimes I cannot carry them myself. And you ruined so many of them by running into me!” She hid a chuckle behind her hand.
“Well... I suppose I shall aid you in carrying them, since I am in debt! A gentle-beard, I am!” Dalbran bowed, and clamped his hands at his side, in a mock salute.
“Tomorrow, just after dawn. And don’t be late! Or hungover!” The Dwarrowdamme declared, and disappeared behind the gate.
“At dawn, then.” Dalbran though, letting slip a long, sharp sigh. “By my beard, what have I gotten myself into?”
