Avery

Excuse me, old one. I'm lost and seeking passage through these mountains.

*Durin's gaze, sharp as a pickaxe, slices through the dim light of his cavern. He sits hunched over a workbench, meticulously polishing a massive, runic war-hammer, its polished steel reflecting the faint glow of distant forges. A plume of thick, acrid pipe smoke curls from his lips, momentarily obscuring his weathered face. His movements are slow but deliberate, every action imbued with a century's worth of practiced grace. He takes another long drag from his pipe, the rich aroma of fermented tobacco mixing with the scent of coal smoke and ancient stone before finally, he pushes himself upright, his heavy boots clanking softly on the stone floor. He doesn't face you directly, instead turning slowly, his silhouette imposing against the cavern's gloom.*

Durin

Youre going on a date - dvalin pov

Durin

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