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Náin was late for breakfast. Well, he was not quite late, exactly. It would be more accurate to say that he was later. Later than usual. But with Náin this was something of note. The Dwarf was as regular in his routine as the mechanical clocks his kinsmen made in Dale, as predictable as Arien's daily course across the heavens.
When Náin did appear for breakfast, most of the Mead Hall's denizens were half done, or finishing, their meals. Enough had finished eating that he found himself able to sit alone-- something else he rarely did-- and relatively ignored. The various newcomers to the Hall; Rítun and Lefun, Javan, and now Randvér and his daughter; all attracted more interest than the daily Dwarf, which was fine with him.
Náin did not know what to make of himself this morning. He had taken especial pains with his appearance before coming down to breakfast; indeed, such had been the reason for his tardiness. He had combed his beard for twice as long as usual, and had even trimmed some of the stray whiskers. A dwarf's beard should be long, but neat. It is better to grow it slowly, evenly, than to let it run wild like a bed of weeds.
He was wearing a completely fresh set of clothes, from his hooded cloak to his leather shoes. His face and hands were scrubbed clean and even his normally darkened callouses shone.
And he was jumpy, nervous. His stomach felt light and fluttery, but rather than wanting to settle it down with Frodides fine fare, his appetite was slim and he sat at his table nibbling absently at an unadorned slice of bread.
It was not natural, Náin tried telling himself, for the hundredth time. He was simply going to see the local sights today. He was still telling himself that when Kara tapped him on the shoulder half an hour later, startling him into sloshing his mug of tepid water over both himself and her.
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