The dwarf settles in the dirt, leaning her back against the grimy, dirt-encrusted spokes of the wagon wheel.  The clothes that she wears are not much cleaner.  Patterns mark the places where the gaps in her leathers let the dust of the road settle upon the simple home-spun fabric beneath and mingle with her sweat to cake into a fine dark mud.  Thick fingers, honored many times over by the callouses of labor, run up and over the short bristles of her mouse brown hair before they crack the cover to the first page, and a broad grin lights her wide and open, sun-kissed, face as she reads from the the words that she'd penned some five years previous.

This is the diary of Gleam of Pyrite Sunwalker.

If you find this please return it to me.  You will know me easily as I am the dwarven woman with short hair.  The only dwarven woman that I know with short hair.  Maybe the only dwarf that I know with short hair.

But I meander.  I am a young dwarf, being only fifty years of age at this writing.  I am brown of eye as well as hair, and my complexion is touched brown by the sun.  I am neither tall nor short at nine hands tall.  I weigh in at twelve stone, so I am not lean.

Ask at caravans.  And if you do ask for me, ask for Pye.  Most people call me that.

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