King of the Dwarfs

“I don’t like any of this bloody politicking Korl. My father always used to say that any problem that couldn’t be solved with an honest day’s toil or at the end of an axe wasn’t worth bothering with.”

The King’s chief adviser and oldest friend took a moment before he responded.

“Indeed, and yet the world was a very different place back then. To venture back into Dolgarth in your father’s reign would have been unthinkable. Yet think it we must, if we are to uphold the glory of him and his ancestors.”

The King grunted and took another sup of his ale. He was wise enough to see the sense in his friend’s words, and alert enough to the honeyed way in which they had been chosen.

“So who do I send? The humans are going to be suspicious enough as it is. Who do I rest this great duty on Korl?”

“Well. There’s always your nephew…”

The King spluttered, ale foam flecking from his lips and dappling his beard in his surprise.

“Rordin? Are you bloody insensible Korl? He’s practically a bloody native here now!”

“Exactly. He’ll fit right in. He’ll be a nice neutral presence that will keep them all happy. But whatever you think of the lad, he’s still his father’s son, and a damned good fighter. Plus, a trip like this might give him that spark of the ancestors that we couldn’t ever instil.”
Golloch was silent a few moments, and Korl swore he could hear the cogs turning in his King’s brain as he mulled the idea over. Finally, he took another long pull of his ale and wiped his beard with the back of his hand.

“Fine. Send a party to find whatever alehouse or tavern he’s set himself up in and drag him back here. We’ll need to sober the little sod up before we can do anything, no doubt.”

“As you wish, sire.”

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