Crafting

Imfrim approached the door of a dwarven house. A square building with plastered walls and a triangular roof.

"Can I do what he entrusted me to do?" He questioned himself before knocking on the wooden door only to hear the sound of wood being pulled out as the door opened revealing the face of an old gray-bearded dwarf holding a stick.

"You ran from home again? Have you finished loathing yourself?" The dwarf asked.

Not being able to face him, Imfrim replied with one word "Yes"

A sigh escaped the old dwarf's lips, he felt the need to say something but decided not to.

"Come in,"

"Thank you, Father."

Imfrim walked through the door and immediately started walking in a certain direction. A certain direction that his father knew all too well. It wasn't long before the door to the house was closed and locked.

"Will you not even eat?" he asked with a serious tone.

This tone of voice made Imfrim stop in his footsteps.