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[renau1g]

*Clang, Clang, Clang*
Tregar looked with pride at his current piece, a scythe for a local farmer, as the metal cooled. The beads of sweat poured down his sooty face, tracing tiny rivulets into the blackened visage, revealing the tanned skin underneath. His muscles ached, they always did, after the repetition of hammering metal all day.

"Moradin, please guide my hand" the dwarf thinks to himself, as he did every time he was about to strike the metal. He was a follower of the Soulforger and did his best to honour the deity in his actions. Although his efforts were greater than his results, this didn't deter Tregar, he had continued his work for years in town, he wasn't the best blacksmith, not by a long shot, but his work was adequate and most of the townsfolk could rely on his honest pricing.

Wiping the sweat away from his wrinkled forehead with an equally dirty forearm did little to clean his face, rather it just smeared the soot around. Grabbing the tongs he was about to place the implement back in the flames when he heard some commotion outside. Looking out through the open doorway, Tregar saw the dwarven militia captain moving through the streets.

Stopping his work, carefully setting aside the piece, the dwarf moved to hear what Durkik was saying. Leaning against the doorway, Tregar listened with interest, although careful to hide any emotions, after the captain had moved along he went back into his shop, closing the door behind him and hanging the "Closed for the Day" sign on the window.

Tregar walked slowly over to the locked chest in the back of a carefully concealed stone in the floor. He gingerly pulled out a simple unadorned wooden box, setting it carefully on a table. Tregar opened the box and sitting on a velvet cushion was a silver holy symbol of the Allfather. He reverently ran his calloused fingers over the item, feeling the cool metal with his fingers and drawing inspiration from its touch.

"The time is now, I must stand up to these orcs. Moradin, your will be served" Tregar prays, as he carefully lifts the symbol out of the box and places it over his head, letting it fall to his chest. He had kept his abilities secret for all these long years in town, knowing that if he revealed himself, the others would desire for him to use his gifts as a regular guard, or worse, a hired blade. Tregar had been content to work and live a simple life, but now as hints of gray were starting to appear in his dark black hair, the time for action was at hand.

Over the two days available to him, Tregar would spend most of the time in quiet meditation, reconnecting with Moradin. As the time approached, he began gathering his gear; the battered chainmail, the simple iron staff, and the nearly new crossbow. Spending the time to strap on the gear, Tregar looked more and more like the able-bodied hero that he was, a vessel for Moradin's will on this plane.

Tregar looked one last look at the quiet forge, the empty anvil, the cooled furnace with a feeling that this was the last time he'd see this place, a feeling he couldn't shake as he closed the door on his past life and began walking towards his new one. Tregar marched purposefully and directly to the High Hall.