Thorf
The morning was bright, and the chill in the air made the dwarf glad, as used to the heat of the forge as he was, he had always enjoyed the chill air of a mountain morning, and this was as close as he'd been in several months. He had several flagons of ale, his armor strapped to his dwarven warhorse (mule), along with travelling supplies and his sledge. He carried his warhammers on his person though, on his belts, and one hidden under his woolen cloak. His hardy clothes would keep the chill off of his bones, and protect against minor annoyances, like briars, thorns, and insect bites.
He had told Jhim, his foreman about his trip, turned down Jhim's offer of help, and told him of the will, and to open it if he didn't hear word for a month's time, in the meantime, prices were to go up to cost, the shop would break even on material costs, and pay the workers out of Thorf's pockets.
He set out heading in the direction most of the refugees had come from, towards Lomertown. Leading his warhorse as he plodded along, with his pace now set, he could continue for a couple of days before he'd need to stop for more than a few minutes to prepare food, or let Svendor, his mule, drink.
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