Dhazjun is broad-shouldered and deep-eyed, scarcely into dwarven middle age. He has long since become habituated to the garments of the Great Smith's priesthood: sleeveless robes and a leather smith's apron. His arms are corded with muscle, criss-crossed by old wounds, and pocked with the smaller burns of sparks. His smile comes easily, but is rarely wide.

When battle is necessary or ceremony demands, he dons plate armor etched with runic prayers. Hammer and axe hang from his belt. He wears a heavy pack with ease, unburdened by its weight.

---

"So you've come to hear about the great Dhazjun Mountainheart? Hnf. The chanters' tales not enough? Well. They tell it fairer, but I tell it truer. Never expected to be a soldier, nor a priest, nor carry this 'hero' business.

"Don't look so shocked. I wasn't even going to be a smith. My father was a cook. The story goes that I picked up an axe when my village was attacked. No. It was a kitchen cleaver. They came so fast, the goblins, straight over the walls. I didn't even think. Everybody was fighting. I was loud, even then, and people rallied to me. We survived. I was lucky I didn't get killed, or maybe the Great Smith was lookin' my way already. The thane gave me a proper axe after that, and made sure I was part of the levy we sent to the high king.

"The chanters get most of the next part right. I served High King Arlek well and loyally. It was bloody business, the war with Azog. No quarter asked or given. I wore my kin's badge, but we were all killers then. Bein' good at it and keepin' my fellows from being reckless meant that when it was time to second a dwarf to our guests for questing, it was my name that they mentioned.

"Hmph. The chanters, the bards, they miss what those first years were really about. We were friends first. We fought like friends, even when we were fightin' each other. All of us, doing what needed to be done. We went where there were problems we could solve, an' we did what we could to help the people we met. Young. Not foolish, but we didn't see past our own noses.

"That started to change after the Grey Deep. We almost died there. Close as I've ever come, and the scars still nag me when the weather turns cold. I promised the Great Smith that if we survived, I'd serve him. We lived. I took up the Hammer. Me, a dwarf who'd never even worked a bellows. I did it, though. Look around. It's where I was meant to be, what my hands were meant for. Making.

"hat didn't stop the questing, didn't stop the Long Hunt. That's when things changed for me, though, lass. That's why Goldbiter and Starstrike are locked away waiting for my sister-son to take them up. It's why I only make armor now, and my sculptures. You saw them on your way in, aye? I've destroyed more than my share. Now I'm for making."