Dust on the Pauldron

The Great Forge was as loud as ever. I was the one who had grown quieter. Outside my old workshop in Ironforge, I held a key whose teeth I could have recognised in the dark. Even so, I had to turn it twice in the lock. Metal wasn’t the only thing that had rusted over the years.

My armour hung in the cupboard. Beneath the left pauldron was the dent from the pass to Loch Modan. Harrek had laughed then, claiming I’d deliberately offered a trogg my finest steel. I barely remembered the pain. Harrek’s laugh, though—that I remembered. His latest letter lay unopened beside the door.

I oiled the buckles one by one, keeping time with the hammer in the next workshop. When I fastened the breastplate, my breath caught. Not because of the fit, as I would later claim. Because a familiar weight had suddenly asked me a question: what did I mean to do with it now?

Outside the gate, I met a young dwarf woman carrying a rifle almost larger than herself. She was cursing a broken sling. I offered her my spare. She asked whether I was bound for the quarry. I could have said no. Instead, I asked which way she planned to go.

‘The way on the map,’ she said. So we set off together towards Kharanos. Snow crunched underfoot. Her steps were impatient; mine were careful. On the first climb she noticed, and slowed without saying a word. I was more grateful for that than I could tell her.