The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 13 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 14; Tour
The halls of Buradoth rang with the soft rumble of activity, footsteps, the clink of metal, the distant hum of voices deep in conversation. Donal, broad-shouldered and ever-smiling, strode confidently ahead, glancing over his shoulder at Nekonata and the two wolves padding silently at his side.
"Right then, stranger," Donal began, voice echoing warmly off the carved stone walls, "today I’m going to show you all the wonders of Buradoth. Kitchens, smithies, the works! By the end of this, you’ll be begging me to stop talking."
Nekonata smirked faintly. “I already am.”
Kristolia’s tail flicked, and Donal shot the wolf a mock glare. "Oh, don’t you start. I can see it in your eyes. You’re judging me too."
Santaya gave a sharp chuff of air, as if in agreement. Donal sighed dramatically. "See? Even the wolves are on your side. Not fair."
Donal led them down a sloping hallway where the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread grew stronger with each step. The air warmed as they entered the sprawling dwarven kitchens, a cavernous room alive with the crackle of hearthfires and the clatter of ladles against cauldrons.
A stocky cook with a beard tucked neatly into his apron waved them over. Donal translated with a grin. “He says the stew is so hearty it’ll grow hair on your chest. Not that you need more.”
Nekonata peered into the cauldron, raising a brow. “Is it supposed to be bubbling like that?”
Donal leaned in, lowering his voice. “That’s just the vegetables fighting for their lives.”
The cook laughed, slapping Donal’s back hard enough to make him stumble. “See? Told you it was good!”
Kristolia sniffed the stew, then promptly sneezed, startling a young kitchen assistant. Donal chuckled. “See, even your wolves think it’s spicy. That means it’s authentic.”
They left the warmth of the kitchens, stepping back into the cooler stone corridors. Donal wiped his hands on his tunic as they walked.
"The food’s good enough to make you forget you’re underground," he said. "But you haven’t truly seen Buradoth until you’ve heard her heartbeat."
Nekonata gave him a questioning look. “Heartbeat?”
"You’ll see," Donal replied with a grin as they rounded a corner, and the clang of hammers began to echo through the halls.
The smithy sprawled like a living forge, every surface glowing with heat and sparks. The air smelled of iron and fire, the rhythmic hammering creating a strange sort of music.
"Ah, the heart of Buradoth," Donal said with pride. "If you can’t hear the hammer-song, the mountain must be dead."
One smith paused his work to nod in greeting, sweat gleaming on his brow. Donal pointed to the master anvil in the center of the workshop. “That anvil’s been here for over eight hundred years. Survived wars, avalanches, and—”
"Your cooking?" Nekonata cut in.
Donal blinked, then laughed, pointing a mock-warning finger. "Careful, lad. I’ll toss you in the forge and see if you’re fireproof."
Santaya growled softly—not threateningly, but just enough to suggest she’d like to see him try. Donal held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave. Tough crowd.”
Leaving the clang and roar of the forge behind, they moved through a narrow archway into a quieter set of halls. The air grew cooler, cleaner, and carried a faint glimmer of light from somewhere ahead.
"Next stop, where the sparks turn into something shiny," Donal announced. "The jewellers’ workshop. Just don’t breathe too heavily, or they’ll charge you for polishing the air.”
The jewellers’ hall was a world apart from the smithy, quiet and precise. Tables gleamed with silver, gold, and gemstones, each piece reflecting the lamplight in brilliant colors. Dwarves bent over their benches with lenses strapped to their faces, working on designs so fine they looked impossible.
"Now, these folks," Donal whispered, "can tell how rich you are just by the way you breathe. So, try not to inhale too loudly."
Nekonata smirked. “Then I’ll just stop breathing.”
Donal patted him on the back. "That’s the spirit. Or it will be, if you pass out."
One jeweler eyed Santaya and Kristolia with fascination. After a moment of rummaging, he presented two small, perfectly polished silver collars, as if offering a royal gift.
Nekonata raised an eyebrow. “Did he just try to bribe my wolves?”
Donal grinned. “More like honor them. You’re lucky, you don’t usually get offered jewelry just for looking intimidating.”
As they left the jewellers’ workshop, Donal’s voice softened. "Now, for something a bit older than shiny stones. History, lad. Proper history carved into the mountain itself."
Kristolia’s ears perked as the heavy scent of books and parchment drifted from ahead, mixed with the faint, earthy smell of ancient stone.
The Dwarven library was a solemn place. Heavy stone tablets stood stacked neatly, while massive books bound in iron-studded leather rested on reinforced shelves.
"Welcome to the dwarves’ idea of ‘light reading,’" Donal said, grunting as he lifted one of the smaller tablets. "Try not to drop it, it’s worth more than my left arm."
Nekonata tapped the edge of one. “I’m guessing each of these weighs more than your humor?”
"Impossible,” Donal said with a grin. “My humor is heavier. At least according to my mother.”
Kristolia pawed at a stack of scrolls, tilting her head as if curious about the strange markings. Donal crouched, scratching her behind the ears. “Don’t worry, girl. You probably understand more of these runes than I do.”
Donal closed the library door gently behind them. "Enough stone and ink. Let me show you something you won’t expect to see in a mountain fortress."
They followed a winding tunnel, the smell of soil and greenery growing stronger as they walked. Finally, light, true sunlight, poured in from ahead.
The plateau stretched out in a wide, terraced expanse, greenery thriving against all odds. Dwarves moved between rows of sturdy mountain crops, their hands and faces smudged with earth.
"Behold!" Donal announced with theatrical flair, "the Buradoth farmlands. Proof that if you hit the mountain hard enough, it eventually grows potatoes out of guilt."
Nekonata knelt to examine a crop of squat, leafy vegetables. “So, this is what happens when dwarves garden instead of mine?”
"Exactly," Donal said with a grin. “We just dig in the wrong direction and call it farming.”
Santaya sniffed the soil, sneezed loudly, and sat down with a grumble. Donal threw up his hands. “See? Even the wolves think we’re mad. But look at these carrots! Perfectly ugly, just like the folks who grow them.”
Nekonata shook his head, but there was a faint smile on his lips. “I’ll give you this, Donal. You make the tour… memorable.”
"Of course I do,” Donal said, puffing out his chest. “You’ll remember this day every time you see a crooked carrot or hear a pot bubbling suspiciously.”
Footsteps approached, lighter than the usual heavy dwarven boots. A female dwarf with snow-white hair stepped forward, balancing a tray in her hands. Upon it sat a large jug of cool, pale lemon juice and several sturdy wooden cups. Her emerald-green eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Freshly made lemon juice, gentlemen," she said pleasantly to Nekonata, before glancing at Donal with a sly grin. "And trouble."
Donal laughed, a booming sound that drew glances from passing dwarves. "Ah, and here she is, my better half! Nekonata, this fearsome lady is my wife, Mirabella."
Mirabella smirked as she set the tray down on the bench between them. "Better half, eh? That’s not what you called me when I beat you at arm wrestling last week."
"Don’t believe her, lad," Donal muttered, pouring the juice into cups. "It was a… tactical loss. Keeps the peace."
Kristolia, ever watchful, sniffed at the lemon juice with suspicion, while Santaya licked her chops as if hoping for a taste. Nekonata took a careful sip, his ears twitching slightly at the tartness. “That’s good,” he said, “very tart, but good.”
Mirabella sat beside Donal and rested her chin in her hand, staring at Nekonata with the amused gaze of someone who already knew all of Donal’s secrets. "So, has he told you the story of how he tried to court me?"
Donal froze mid-sip. "Mirabella… no."
"Oh yes," she continued with a wicked grin, turning toward Nekonata. "This oaf decided to serenade me in the middle of the market square. He brought a lute he borrowed from one of his cousins, but halfway through his ‘romantic’ song, the string snapped and hit him in the face."
"It wasn’t that bad—" Donal began.
"Then," Mirabella said, cutting him off, "a goat, yes, a goat, decided to get involved. He’d tied flowers to the end of the lute to make it ‘look fancy,’ but the goat ate the flowers, chewed the lute strap, and the next thing I knew, Donal fell face-first into the fountain."
Nekonata’s lips twitched. "A goat?"
"Biggest one I’ve ever seen," Mirabella added, sipping her lemon juice as if it was wine. "Mean eyes, that one. Looked like it had a grudge against him."
Donal groaned, covering his face with one hand. "I’m never going to live this down."
"Not as long as I’m alive," Mirabella said sweetly. "But he was persistent. I’ll give him that. Took three weeks before I finally agreed to let him court me properly. And even then, he nearly burned his beard off trying to impress me by cooking dinner."
"It was a controlled fire," Donal muttered.
Nekonata chuckled softly, his wolves letting out what could only be described as a huff of amusement. “I see why you married her. She’s far fiercer than you.”
"Don’t I know it," Donal replied, but his smile betrayed his pride.
After a time, Mirabella rose, dusting her hands on her apron. "Well, I can’t sit around all day making fun of my husband, much as I’d like to. The bakery needs me." She gave Nekonata a small bow of farewell. "You’re welcome here any time, wolf-friend."
"Thank you," Nekonata said with a nod, watching as Mirabella walked away with that same quiet authority that made Donal grin like a fool.
"Sharp tongue, sharper axe," Donal said, watching her vanish into the bustling hallways. "She keeps me honest."
Nekonata took another sip of juice, thoughtful. “Speaking of sharp things,” he said at last, “do you think I could see where the dwarves train?”
Donal’s face lit up. "Ah, now you’re talking! Come on then. I’ll show you where the hammer meets the shield."
Donal led Nekonata and his wolves through a series of winding stone corridors. The sound of metal striking metal grew louder with every step, echoing through the mountain’s heart. Santaya’s ears pricked forward, alert, while Kristolia’s nose twitched at the sharp tang of sweat, oiled leather, and iron.
They stepped into a vast chamber carved from the bedrock, its ceiling high and arched like the inside of a cathedral. The training grounds were alive with energy, dwarves shouted in challenge, axes clanged against shields, and hammers pounded wooden dummies with enough force to make the floor tremble.
"Welcome to the Iron Hall," Donal said with a flourish, as if revealing some grand secret. "This is where the young ones learn how not to get flattened in battle."
A dwarf in heavy leather armor grunted as he swung an axe into a battered target, splitting it clean in half. Nekonata raised an eyebrow. “Your training dummies don’t last long, do they?”
"If the dummies last, it means we’re doing it wrong," Donal said with a grin.
As they walked along the edge of the yard, some of the dwarves paused mid-drill to glance at Nekonata and his wolves. The sight of two sleek predators prowling beside a tall, foreign warrior was enough to earn a few impressed whistles and muttered comments.
One broad-shouldered dwarf, his braided beard dusted with chalk and sweat, strode over with a grin. "Donal! Who’s your tall friend with the wolves? Looks like he’s never seen a real fight in his life."
"Don’t let the calm face fool you," Donal said, clapping Nekonata on the shoulder. "This is Nekonata. I’d bet my beard he can hold his own better than you think, Garmir."
Garmir snorted. "Is that so? I’d believe it when I see it." He tilted his head at Nekonata, his grin widening. "Care for a friendly match, lad? Unless you’re scared of breaking a sweat."
Santaya’s low growl rumbled like distant thunder, and Garmir took a careful step back, hands raised. "Ah, no offense meant. Wolves don’t fight fair."
"You’re lucky my wolves have better manners than some dwarves I know," Nekonata replied, his tone dry but not unfriendly.
Donal’s eyes lit up with mischief. "Go on, lad. Give the dwarf a quick spar. I’ll even translate Garmir’s excuses when he loses."
Nekonata glanced at Garmir, who was already loosening his shoulders and pulling a blunted training axe from the rack. “Fine,” Nekonata said, rolling his neck. “But if I break him, you explain it to his mother.”
"She’ll probably thank you," Donal muttered under his breath.
The dwarves quickly cleared a space, stomping their boots on the stone floor in anticipation. Santaya and Kristolia settled just outside the circle, watching with sharp eyes. Garmir hefted his axe, grinning.
"First to three taps wins," Donal announced, stepping into the role of referee. "No biting, no throwing rocks, and no calling for your wolves when you’re losing. Understood?"
Nekonata smirked, drawing the short, curved practice blade he’d been offered. “You talk too much.”
The clash began fast. Garmir charged with a roar, his axe swinging in a wide arc. Nekonata sidestepped gracefully, his blade flicking out to tap the dwarf’s shoulder before Garmir could recover.
"One!" Donal shouted, laughing. "Come on, Garmir! You’re making this look easy."
Garmir growled, doubling his effort. He feinted left, then swung low, forcing Nekonata to leap backward. The axe’s wooden edge brushed his thigh, barely a hit, but enough to count.
"One-one!" Donal announced with mock solemnity. "The crowd goes wild!"
The onlookers shouted encouragement, though some of it sounded suspiciously like bets being made. Santaya barked once, as if adding her own commentary.
Garmir’s third strike came with all the stubborn determination of a seasoned warrior, but Nekonata flowed around it like water, slipping under the swing and tapping the dwarf’s side twice in quick succession.
"Three! The victor, Nekonata, the wolf-whisperer!" Donal declared, throwing his hands up dramatically.
Garmir panted, then let out a hearty laugh. "Not bad, lad. You’re quicker than you look. Might even be quicker than Donal back when he still had knees that worked."
"Oi," Donal protested, rubbing his knee. "My knees work just fine. Most days."
As the dwarves resumed their training, Garmir gave Nekonata a respectful nod. "If you ever want to join us for drills, you’d be welcome here. Wolves too, as long as they don’t chew on the training dummies."
Kristolia yawned, showing a flash of sharp teeth, as if to say she’d consider it.
Donal chuckled. "What do you think, lad? Fancy a few rounds of dwarven training tomorrow morning? Builds character… and bruises."
Chapter 14; Tour
The halls of Buradoth rang with the soft rumble of activity, footsteps, the clink of metal, the distant hum of voices deep in conversation. Donal, broad-shouldered and ever-smiling, strode confidently ahead, glancing over his shoulder at Nekonata and the two wolves padding silently at his side.
"Right then, stranger," Donal began, voice echoing warmly off the carved stone walls, "today I’m going to show you all the wonders of Buradoth. Kitchens, smithies, the works! By the end of this, you’ll be begging me to stop talking."
Nekonata smirked faintly. “I already am.”
Kristolia’s tail flicked, and Donal shot the wolf a mock glare. "Oh, don’t you start. I can see it in your eyes. You’re judging me too."
Santaya gave a sharp chuff of air, as if in agreement. Donal sighed dramatically. "See? Even the wolves are on your side. Not fair."
Donal led them down a sloping hallway where the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread grew stronger with each step. The air warmed as they entered the sprawling dwarven kitchens, a cavernous room alive with the crackle of hearthfires and the clatter of ladles against cauldrons.
A stocky cook with a beard tucked neatly into his apron waved them over. Donal translated with a grin. “He says the stew is so hearty it’ll grow hair on your chest. Not that you need more.”
Nekonata peered into the cauldron, raising a brow. “Is it supposed to be bubbling like that?”
Donal leaned in, lowering his voice. “That’s just the vegetables fighting for their lives.”
The cook laughed, slapping Donal’s back hard enough to make him stumble. “See? Told you it was good!”
Kristolia sniffed the stew, then promptly sneezed, startling a young kitchen assistant. Donal chuckled. “See, even your wolves think it’s spicy. That means it’s authentic.”
They left the warmth of the kitchens, stepping back into the cooler stone corridors. Donal wiped his hands on his tunic as they walked.
"The food’s good enough to make you forget you’re underground," he said. "But you haven’t truly seen Buradoth until you’ve heard her heartbeat."
Nekonata gave him a questioning look. “Heartbeat?”
"You’ll see," Donal replied with a grin as they rounded a corner, and the clang of hammers began to echo through the halls.
The smithy sprawled like a living forge, every surface glowing with heat and sparks. The air smelled of iron and fire, the rhythmic hammering creating a strange sort of music.
"Ah, the heart of Buradoth," Donal said with pride. "If you can’t hear the hammer-song, the mountain must be dead."
One smith paused his work to nod in greeting, sweat gleaming on his brow. Donal pointed to the master anvil in the center of the workshop. “That anvil’s been here for over eight hundred years. Survived wars, avalanches, and—”
"Your cooking?" Nekonata cut in.
Donal blinked, then laughed, pointing a mock-warning finger. "Careful, lad. I’ll toss you in the forge and see if you’re fireproof."
Santaya growled softly—not threateningly, but just enough to suggest she’d like to see him try. Donal held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave. Tough crowd.”
Leaving the clang and roar of the forge behind, they moved through a narrow archway into a quieter set of halls. The air grew cooler, cleaner, and carried a faint glimmer of light from somewhere ahead.
"Next stop, where the sparks turn into something shiny," Donal announced. "The jewellers’ workshop. Just don’t breathe too heavily, or they’ll charge you for polishing the air.”
The jewellers’ hall was a world apart from the smithy, quiet and precise. Tables gleamed with silver, gold, and gemstones, each piece reflecting the lamplight in brilliant colors. Dwarves bent over their benches with lenses strapped to their faces, working on designs so fine they looked impossible.
"Now, these folks," Donal whispered, "can tell how rich you are just by the way you breathe. So, try not to inhale too loudly."
Nekonata smirked. “Then I’ll just stop breathing.”
Donal patted him on the back. "That’s the spirit. Or it will be, if you pass out."
One jeweler eyed Santaya and Kristolia with fascination. After a moment of rummaging, he presented two small, perfectly polished silver collars, as if offering a royal gift.
Nekonata raised an eyebrow. “Did he just try to bribe my wolves?”
Donal grinned. “More like honor them. You’re lucky, you don’t usually get offered jewelry just for looking intimidating.”
As they left the jewellers’ workshop, Donal’s voice softened. "Now, for something a bit older than shiny stones. History, lad. Proper history carved into the mountain itself."
Kristolia’s ears perked as the heavy scent of books and parchment drifted from ahead, mixed with the faint, earthy smell of ancient stone.
The Dwarven library was a solemn place. Heavy stone tablets stood stacked neatly, while massive books bound in iron-studded leather rested on reinforced shelves.
"Welcome to the dwarves’ idea of ‘light reading,’" Donal said, grunting as he lifted one of the smaller tablets. "Try not to drop it, it’s worth more than my left arm."
Nekonata tapped the edge of one. “I’m guessing each of these weighs more than your humor?”
"Impossible,” Donal said with a grin. “My humor is heavier. At least according to my mother.”
Kristolia pawed at a stack of scrolls, tilting her head as if curious about the strange markings. Donal crouched, scratching her behind the ears. “Don’t worry, girl. You probably understand more of these runes than I do.”
Donal closed the library door gently behind them. "Enough stone and ink. Let me show you something you won’t expect to see in a mountain fortress."
They followed a winding tunnel, the smell of soil and greenery growing stronger as they walked. Finally, light, true sunlight, poured in from ahead.
The plateau stretched out in a wide, terraced expanse, greenery thriving against all odds. Dwarves moved between rows of sturdy mountain crops, their hands and faces smudged with earth.
"Behold!" Donal announced with theatrical flair, "the Buradoth farmlands. Proof that if you hit the mountain hard enough, it eventually grows potatoes out of guilt."
Nekonata knelt to examine a crop of squat, leafy vegetables. “So, this is what happens when dwarves garden instead of mine?”
"Exactly," Donal said with a grin. “We just dig in the wrong direction and call it farming.”
Santaya sniffed the soil, sneezed loudly, and sat down with a grumble. Donal threw up his hands. “See? Even the wolves think we’re mad. But look at these carrots! Perfectly ugly, just like the folks who grow them.”
Nekonata shook his head, but there was a faint smile on his lips. “I’ll give you this, Donal. You make the tour… memorable.”
"Of course I do,” Donal said, puffing out his chest. “You’ll remember this day every time you see a crooked carrot or hear a pot bubbling suspiciously.”
Footsteps approached, lighter than the usual heavy dwarven boots. A female dwarf with snow-white hair stepped forward, balancing a tray in her hands. Upon it sat a large jug of cool, pale lemon juice and several sturdy wooden cups. Her emerald-green eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Freshly made lemon juice, gentlemen," she said pleasantly to Nekonata, before glancing at Donal with a sly grin. "And trouble."
Donal laughed, a booming sound that drew glances from passing dwarves. "Ah, and here she is, my better half! Nekonata, this fearsome lady is my wife, Mirabella."
Mirabella smirked as she set the tray down on the bench between them. "Better half, eh? That’s not what you called me when I beat you at arm wrestling last week."
"Don’t believe her, lad," Donal muttered, pouring the juice into cups. "It was a… tactical loss. Keeps the peace."
Kristolia, ever watchful, sniffed at the lemon juice with suspicion, while Santaya licked her chops as if hoping for a taste. Nekonata took a careful sip, his ears twitching slightly at the tartness. “That’s good,” he said, “very tart, but good.”
Mirabella sat beside Donal and rested her chin in her hand, staring at Nekonata with the amused gaze of someone who already knew all of Donal’s secrets. "So, has he told you the story of how he tried to court me?"
Donal froze mid-sip. "Mirabella… no."
"Oh yes," she continued with a wicked grin, turning toward Nekonata. "This oaf decided to serenade me in the middle of the market square. He brought a lute he borrowed from one of his cousins, but halfway through his ‘romantic’ song, the string snapped and hit him in the face."
"It wasn’t that bad—" Donal began.
"Then," Mirabella said, cutting him off, "a goat, yes, a goat, decided to get involved. He’d tied flowers to the end of the lute to make it ‘look fancy,’ but the goat ate the flowers, chewed the lute strap, and the next thing I knew, Donal fell face-first into the fountain."
Nekonata’s lips twitched. "A goat?"
"Biggest one I’ve ever seen," Mirabella added, sipping her lemon juice as if it was wine. "Mean eyes, that one. Looked like it had a grudge against him."
Donal groaned, covering his face with one hand. "I’m never going to live this down."
"Not as long as I’m alive," Mirabella said sweetly. "But he was persistent. I’ll give him that. Took three weeks before I finally agreed to let him court me properly. And even then, he nearly burned his beard off trying to impress me by cooking dinner."
"It was a controlled fire," Donal muttered.
Nekonata chuckled softly, his wolves letting out what could only be described as a huff of amusement. “I see why you married her. She’s far fiercer than you.”
"Don’t I know it," Donal replied, but his smile betrayed his pride.
After a time, Mirabella rose, dusting her hands on her apron. "Well, I can’t sit around all day making fun of my husband, much as I’d like to. The bakery needs me." She gave Nekonata a small bow of farewell. "You’re welcome here any time, wolf-friend."
"Thank you," Nekonata said with a nod, watching as Mirabella walked away with that same quiet authority that made Donal grin like a fool.
"Sharp tongue, sharper axe," Donal said, watching her vanish into the bustling hallways. "She keeps me honest."
Nekonata took another sip of juice, thoughtful. “Speaking of sharp things,” he said at last, “do you think I could see where the dwarves train?”
Donal’s face lit up. "Ah, now you’re talking! Come on then. I’ll show you where the hammer meets the shield."
Donal led Nekonata and his wolves through a series of winding stone corridors. The sound of metal striking metal grew louder with every step, echoing through the mountain’s heart. Santaya’s ears pricked forward, alert, while Kristolia’s nose twitched at the sharp tang of sweat, oiled leather, and iron.
They stepped into a vast chamber carved from the bedrock, its ceiling high and arched like the inside of a cathedral. The training grounds were alive with energy, dwarves shouted in challenge, axes clanged against shields, and hammers pounded wooden dummies with enough force to make the floor tremble.
"Welcome to the Iron Hall," Donal said with a flourish, as if revealing some grand secret. "This is where the young ones learn how not to get flattened in battle."
A dwarf in heavy leather armor grunted as he swung an axe into a battered target, splitting it clean in half. Nekonata raised an eyebrow. “Your training dummies don’t last long, do they?”
"If the dummies last, it means we’re doing it wrong," Donal said with a grin.
As they walked along the edge of the yard, some of the dwarves paused mid-drill to glance at Nekonata and his wolves. The sight of two sleek predators prowling beside a tall, foreign warrior was enough to earn a few impressed whistles and muttered comments.
One broad-shouldered dwarf, his braided beard dusted with chalk and sweat, strode over with a grin. "Donal! Who’s your tall friend with the wolves? Looks like he’s never seen a real fight in his life."
"Don’t let the calm face fool you," Donal said, clapping Nekonata on the shoulder. "This is Nekonata. I’d bet my beard he can hold his own better than you think, Garmir."
Garmir snorted. "Is that so? I’d believe it when I see it." He tilted his head at Nekonata, his grin widening. "Care for a friendly match, lad? Unless you’re scared of breaking a sweat."
Santaya’s low growl rumbled like distant thunder, and Garmir took a careful step back, hands raised. "Ah, no offense meant. Wolves don’t fight fair."
"You’re lucky my wolves have better manners than some dwarves I know," Nekonata replied, his tone dry but not unfriendly.
Donal’s eyes lit up with mischief. "Go on, lad. Give the dwarf a quick spar. I’ll even translate Garmir’s excuses when he loses."
Nekonata glanced at Garmir, who was already loosening his shoulders and pulling a blunted training axe from the rack. “Fine,” Nekonata said, rolling his neck. “But if I break him, you explain it to his mother.”
"She’ll probably thank you," Donal muttered under his breath.
The dwarves quickly cleared a space, stomping their boots on the stone floor in anticipation. Santaya and Kristolia settled just outside the circle, watching with sharp eyes. Garmir hefted his axe, grinning.
"First to three taps wins," Donal announced, stepping into the role of referee. "No biting, no throwing rocks, and no calling for your wolves when you’re losing. Understood?"
Nekonata smirked, drawing the short, curved practice blade he’d been offered. “You talk too much.”
The clash began fast. Garmir charged with a roar, his axe swinging in a wide arc. Nekonata sidestepped gracefully, his blade flicking out to tap the dwarf’s shoulder before Garmir could recover.
"One!" Donal shouted, laughing. "Come on, Garmir! You’re making this look easy."
Garmir growled, doubling his effort. He feinted left, then swung low, forcing Nekonata to leap backward. The axe’s wooden edge brushed his thigh, barely a hit, but enough to count.
"One-one!" Donal announced with mock solemnity. "The crowd goes wild!"
The onlookers shouted encouragement, though some of it sounded suspiciously like bets being made. Santaya barked once, as if adding her own commentary.
Garmir’s third strike came with all the stubborn determination of a seasoned warrior, but Nekonata flowed around it like water, slipping under the swing and tapping the dwarf’s side twice in quick succession.
"Three! The victor, Nekonata, the wolf-whisperer!" Donal declared, throwing his hands up dramatically.
Garmir panted, then let out a hearty laugh. "Not bad, lad. You’re quicker than you look. Might even be quicker than Donal back when he still had knees that worked."
"Oi," Donal protested, rubbing his knee. "My knees work just fine. Most days."
As the dwarves resumed their training, Garmir gave Nekonata a respectful nod. "If you ever want to join us for drills, you’d be welcome here. Wolves too, as long as they don’t chew on the training dummies."
Kristolia yawned, showing a flash of sharp teeth, as if to say she’d consider it.
Donal chuckled. "What do you think, lad? Fancy a few rounds of dwarven training tomorrow morning? Builds character… and bruises."