"What can you tell me about him?"
Sera's eyes narrowed. "He’s a better fighter than you would think and pretends to be dull-witted when he isn't. Oh, and he’s an expert marksman with a bow that I'm not sure anyone else would be able to draw. Why do you ask?"
"I was merely curious." Micah shrugged and nibbled one of the pastries.
"Curious enough to ask around the guild about him, yes?"
She paused in mid-bite and glared at the woman seated across from her.
"He saved many of our lives, Mic," her sister continued, her voice a little lower now. "If you involve yourself in his business, you may find yourself in over your head."
"I can't involve you in my business dealings, you know that, Sera." She shook her head. It was an excuse and she knew it. She had entertained the hope that her sister would help her to discover a weakness in the man's defenses, but it was clear that she had come with her guard up and would not lower it. At least not enough to be helpful.
"I know," Sera replied and smiled. "Now that we've put that subject to rest, can we talk about why the hell you have servants? Can you not clean up after yourself?"
Micah smirked. "Why do it myself when I can pay others to do it for me?"
Try as he might, he constantly returned to the idea that humans were the middlemen of the world.
It was an idea that had come to Skharr during his travels, and he had never been able to shake it. Humans were worse at living and surviving in the mountains than goblins and dwarves. Elves of all types survived in the wooded areas far better than them. Orcs loved their deserts, and trolls of various species enjoyed living in and near swamps, rivers, and other wetlands. Humans could not match any of them in any of their preferred landscapes.
His kind, on the other hand, were hardy enough to survive in these various locations better than the others could, which made them able to live almost everywhere.
Ultimately, it meant that humans were the only ones who genuinely thrived in locations that allowed for all their kind to coalesce. Ports at the mouths of rivers were a case in point, where everyone of all species and origins could gather and share everything they had learned and created.
Skharr knew for a fact that the other races weren't as interested in gathering in large numbers, but they did nonetheless.
Not quite in the same numbers as the humans, of course. This was why most non-human workers had been consigned to live near the walls and away from the gates and the port, where they were allowed to ply their trade. Most of them managed to live well—better than they would have in their homelands—but they made no secret of the fact that they would prefer to live where their hearts and families resided.
Still, if he needed a blacksmith, he always elected to find a dwarf. That was a lesson learned from his time training in the mountains. Every elder had chosen to have their weapons made and repaired by the dwarf clans that lived beneath the mountains they lived on.
Under the shadow of the walls above, he followed the sounds of metal clanging on metal. He could even feel the heat of the furnaces, which made the air warmer than it needed to be as he stepped through the doorway under the low-hanging sign that read AnvilForged Blacksmith. He held a small chest but the size gave no indication of the weight. It was too heavy to be roped to his belt and needed to be carried in hand.
"Good morning to ye, good sir!" a deep voice shouted from inside. The thick, robust build of the man who barely reached his waist told him he was in the right place.
Even his voice was a little odd. Human languages were difficult for their kind, which meant their accents all sounded the same when they spoke a human tongue.
"And good morning to you, fair master," he replied. "Is Ser AnvilForged present?"
The younger dwarf studied him curiously. "If you needs weapons, I'll be glad to help. Or needs them repaired too."
He nodded. "All the same."
"Fuck off, boy," shouted a voice from inside the shop. "Get back to the furnaces and put your back into it this time. If I catch you mucking about with that che-nor-cul across the street again, I'll use your blood to cool them next."
The youth scowled and shook his head. Even so, he did as he was told and returned to the furnaces while another man approached the front desk. He peeled layers of protective equipment from his body with every step and finally revealed a wispy white beard that almost reached his toes, even when braided. It had been coiled inside his protective helm, although Skharr wasn't sure where he had found the space for it.
"Sorry for the lad's lack of manners." The dwarf growled with annoyance. "He's been away from the mountains since he was a boy and has forgotten our dealings with the DeathEaters in the Silver Mountains."
The barbarian’s eyebrows rose in surprise. "That obvious?"
"Hard to miss one of the Clan, especially when they approach my homestead. The Nor-ra-weith would say you were all born with mountain giant blood."
"Unkind of her to say, even as a clan leader."
"Aye. Do you feel as though she was wrong to say it, however?"
"No, merely unkind."
That drew a grin from the dwarf. "Ah, well. How may we be of service to ye, Master…"
"Skharr. I've lost my bow, Master…"
"Throkrag, although you may call me Throk. Most humans misname me anyway so I might as well make it simple for you dumb fucks. I can also tell you that your skills are likely finer than mine when it comes to crafting bows."
"Aye, but until I have the materials I require, I'll need something to fill the void."
"Then follow me. I am sure we can find something to your taste."
The dwarf stepped away from the desk and motioned for Skharr to follow him.
He assumed that the establishment had been built with few humans in mind when he immediately had to lower his head to step inside with him.
More than a dozen dwarves worked at the furnaces, all wearing appropriate protection against the heat as they expertly handled the tools they had likely built for themselves. Each looked up from their work and raised their hands in greeting to the man who entered their shop.
There would have been no point in trying to speak over the clanging of metal on metal inside.
"Tugerlun, you dre-no-cul-safte!" Throk shouted. "Get this beam up to where it needs to be or I'll use your useless srod-infested corpse to feed the furnaces. And I wager you'll be shit at that too."
Two dwarves hurried to comply. Sure enough, the beam that was being used to lift and lower their heavier tools was off-kilter and the chains had begun to lean to the side.
Skharr had seen them working in the past and instantly stepped beside them and helped them to push the bar up. It was slow work as another man needed to be in place to adjust the screws and tighten them as they continued to push. Throk did none of the work but he smirked to see his massive customer helping them when the bar rose a little higher than the other dwarves were comfortable reaching to.
"You weak shits need to feel ashamed that a human knows your work better than you do!" he roared once they finally settled it into place.
"My first year away from the clan was living among your kin," Skharr told him. "And there were only so many goblins to kill before I was needed to help in the furnaces. While I was never much good at the metalworking, I could be used for a task that most would relegate to mules."