Alrik sat at the 'Durin's Anvil', sharing a table with a few miners younger than himself. Having heard that he was part of the expedition the youngsters had flocked around him to listen to his banter, eager like dwarf lads that had just received their first battle-axes.
"Now you young 'uns know how to swing a pick, I hope, wether at a seam of gold or at a damned orcs head!" There was much chuckling at this one, all of them allready being several pints south of sober. Ofcourse, he could outdrink them any time of the day but the 'one or two pints' had mysteriously been transformed into eight, and the number had only increased.
"Well, I must be off. May your picks never grow dull." The youths cheered him loudly before one of their number dozed of, his head thumping against the hard surface of the table. Making good of the distraction, Alrik slipped out.
Aye, he would need some sleep before setting of.
Alrik awoke from his slumber, feeling very reluctant to get up. Getting angry with himself for slacking he tore of the sheets and got up.
Everything was packed and ready, he just needed to get dressed and he could set out.
He wandered to the back of his smithy where stood an old wooden cuboard. He fumbled for the silver chain aroung his neck and produced a key and pushed it into the lock. The doors swung open silently.
He took down the first part of his armour, the breastplate, and began to get dressed.
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Herein, it is said, the power of Ulmo was shown. For he gathered tidings of all that passed in Beleriand, and every stream that flowed from Middle-earth to the Great Sea was to him a messenger, both to and fro
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