[Fallinel]

When the message from King Dáin Ironfoot had arrived, summoning him to Erebor, Krerin Gemfinder had cursed his evil luck. Just as he had finished delving his great workrooms and furnaces, and had found suitable apprentices in the Iron Hills, he would have to pack up the few tools with which he could not part, and move westward. Krerin was not an important or wealthy Dwarf-he was of the Blacklock tribe-but he was an immensely talented smith and engraver, and could produce fine jewelry of a type that was seldom seen these days. The black-haired, black-eyed Dwarf had worked, longer hours even than most Dwarves, to establish his business, workshop, and reputation. Now, he feared that he would have to start all over, and dreaded being assigned to some lowly mining task in Erebor.

After hiking towards the Lonely Mountain with sinking heart and sour mood, Krerin had decided to stop at the markets of the rebuilt town of Esgaroth on Long Lake, to earn a few coins by selling a trinket or two. Krerin’s temper was improved by the surprisingly quick sale of all the small jewelry pieces and chased metal boxes that he had brought with him, and the happy sound of jingling coins brought joy to his heart. “Well, I can always earn a few extra coins, and perhaps build a reputation here, by doing a bit of frivolous metalwork on the side,” thought Krerin, “and perhaps I’ll treat myself to a pint of ale now.”

The Dwarf stumped through the streets of Esgaroth on his short legs, tassel bobbing from the tip of his dark blue hood, and silver bells tinkling from the cords of his pack. As always when he visited the cities of Men, Krerin was followed by laughing children, who made a game of trying to touch the tassel or the bells. Krerin didn’t mind-in fact he encouraged the games by alternately smiling and scowling at the children, and by altering his pace unexpectedly. He had a soft spot for the children of Men in his hard dwarvish heart.

At last Krerin found what he was looking for-a tavern; the Vineyard Tavern, to be precise. The Dwarf pulled his hood back from his head, and laid his pack of tools outside the door, as some of the axes and tongs might be taken for weapons. He walked in, scanning the patrons as he entered, and stumped right up to the part of the room in which he expected to procure some refreshments. The top of Krerin’s head was even with counter of the bar, and no one on the other side noticed the Dwarf standing there, waiting rather impatiently to request a pint of ale. “Excuse me,” said Krerin to the rough wooden panel in front of his face, “but what must a thirsty Dwarf do to be served a pint of good ale in this establishment?”

Krerin waited until his gruff voice caught the attention of a tall serving girl, who peered over the top of the bar into a pair of glittering black eyes that looked upwards expectantly and with a certain amount of exasperation. “I’m very sorry, sir, but I…I didn’t see you standing there. What can I get for you?”

“Hummph,” said Krerin, “I’d like a pint of your best ale, please. Strong ale, I hope and trust.”

“Coming right up, sir, and yes, it’s quite strong.” The girl retrieved a mug of ale for the Dwarf, and offered a small dark rye loaf as recompense for having overlooked Krerin initially. Krerin paid for his ale, and stalked over to a table in the corner of the common room, from which he could watch the other patrons of the tavern. He climbed up into a chair, looking a bit ridiculous, like a child who was too small to sit at the table properly. Krerin had to reach upwards to grasp his mug of ale from the tabletop, and muttered under his breath about the lack of consideration for dwarvish patrons.

Krerin’s glittering black eyes focused on one patron of the tavern in particular-a young boy, face and body badly scarred by dragon-fire, who was receiving much kind attention. The Dwarf could see that the boy had been beaten, both recently, and repeatedly in the past. No Dwarf could ever understand the loathsome Mannish habit of keeping servants and slaves. All Dwarves, regardless of status, wealth, or birthright, worked hard at menial jobs at some point, and often throughout their long lives. Moreover, Dwarf children were rare and treasured, protected and sheltered; how could anyone put a child to hard physical labor? Krerin shook his shaggy head in disapproval.

An older boy, who looked healthy and impish, had burst in through the door of the tavern, and soon afterwards, a more ominous visitor appeared. A large, ugly, cruel-featured man, whom the Dwarf recognized instantly to be a bully of the worst sort, entered the tavern, and was immediately confronted by a few of the other patrons and a barking dog. A discussion ensued, in which Krerin could perceive that the large man was lying to gain some advantage, or to retrieve something that he felt was rightfully his. Dwarves rarely fail to see through lies and deception.