Valthorn

Just as Kragar, the big, strong soldier, was about to touch the old dwarf with the sack of grain in his hand, a voice cut through the open air, louder than the growls of the Shaccares, the restless murmur of the crowd of dwarves and than the icy wind that cut across the roofs of the village houses.

"Nonsense, Valthorn!" The elderly dwarf Talfor, with a long gray beard, emerged from the crowd, his imposing blacksmith's bearing denoting his authority in the village. "Don't stain your hands with the blood of an old dwarf. We all have enough problems, we don't need any more disagreements."

Valthorn, momentarily taken aback by Talfor's boldness, turned his piercing gaze on him. He glared angrily at the dwarf miner. "Talfor, you dare defy my orders? This insolent dwarf deserves exemplary punishment!"