 Re: dwarf poetry
*A dour dwarf, beard-deep in pints of mead, raises his head and tries to fix bleary-eyes upon Zafar. His brows furrow at the poem, and his eyes cloud even more, trying to understand.*
"That be dwarven poem?" He muttered.
*He shakes his head, as if trying to rid it of an annoying gnat, obviously not understanding the words or poetry. Standing, he finishes an ale, gives a loud burp and speaks loudly*
"Here be a right good dwarven riddle for ye all!"
"Beaten upon, in great din of battle,
I try to withstand the blows that rain upon my master.
I go ahead of him, and meet the sharp-edged steel with my strong chest.
Woe upon my master, if some keen axe cleaves me asunder!" |