Role

Chapter 3

The babe was different. That was clear enough, his stout head, strong arms
prominent even at the ripe age of an infant dwarf. The reason he was
different was clear, he was born into rage. Not the quick, incontrollable
fires that smiths know are useless, but the slow burning, hot at the center
kind of rage. The cool, thoughtful rage, the one that never dies. He was born
from the blood of his father, wrongly disgraced and beardless for naught. The
gall, to think that one of the Bolshtelk's weren't of the stoutest courage,
even among dwarves. Still, his mother, a Bolshtelk as well remained loyal to
her kin and did not leave the clan.

As he grew it became apparent just how tempered Gramoak was. He did not
yammer and yipper needlessly, nor did he cling in groups. He walked alone and
he rarely spoke. You would only ever guess his mood by the way he fought. He
was fearless, and if anything could match his lack of fear it was his
selflessness. Countless times the other dwarves would wander off to fight the
bugbears too young, and Gramoak would simply be there to save them when it
looked bleak, with only his wooden mallet, lustrous beard, and blazing eyes
to fend off the bears.

That said, he was ridiculed a fair amount from the dwarves, he did not drink.
It was almost considered blasphemous, and when asked for a reason he only
gave a sparse few words. "It clouds me." This was the dwarf who entered into
squireship, determined to find Ysaloerye, the Biddy, and prove himself to
her. For she would understand, he hoped, and she would guide and teach.