His kind had mined, had swung the pickaxe, digging and expanding, deeper and further into the dirt and beneath the earth. The dwarves of the world had forged their works, their cities, through the fire of the furnace, descending as lower as towers of the surface were built higher.
Words. The dwarf grimaced. Words are wind. Thoughts, he thought, were no different. He reversed his grip, tilted his hand upside down, let the soil vanish into the wind, fleeing into the breeze. Rock and dirt, his people had toiled through. Yet, unlike most, stone was in their bones.
“What is it?” A human asked him. He was one of others on the Spine, one member in a number of travelers and passengers, where only a fraction were protectors, warriors, like the dwarf, like him.
He didn’t answer straight away. He gave the horizon his gaze. It was daybreak. The mountain pass stretched away, leading to forests and lakes, as the caravan of traders and adventurers moved forward.
“I am not certain,” the dwarf answered. He was calm, watching the distance without a clock, his eyes as timeless as the sky. Clouds loomed overhead, both white and grey, treacherous as the terrain. A Kazarekan or two might just vomit from dizziness.
“However, it is always best to venture in vigilance.” He sighed.
“What is your name again?” The merchant asked the warrior.
The dwarf gave away his station as a guard garbed in armor.
“Torin.” He rose. “Torin Gemheart.” Looking square in the eye.