Neurotic
I plan on living forever. Or die trying.
Havoc Ironskin was by a head lower than most in the procession. His eyes scanning the crowd for threats, for someone familiar or for a sign that everything will be alright with the world.
In his long and violent life he was a lot od things. A craftsman. A merchant. When he learned about surface, he disliked the chaos of human cities, the dirt and smell. There was a minor skirmish with clans, dwarves versus orcs with some human army involved. He didn't follow all the reasons or politics behind it. Typical, really, but he wanted change from human bustle and signed in. As all dwarves, even not trained as a soldier, he was formiddable in a phalanx.
Everything changed after that one, when he became a mercenary and one job required him to travel in a ship. The freedom. The quiet of the wind and waves. The dangerous, but closely knit group of sailors that literally depended for their lives on one another...he learned. The learning was tough, more often than not, it involved fists, whips, clubs or knives.
His natural resilience and stocky build meant advantage, but still, when he went ashore he would take his old armor and put it on. Thus, ironskin. And when the sun disapeared, the crew, superstitious lot they were, rushed to their various temples to pray or to taverns to drink before the world ends. Which left Havoc strangely alone. So he joined the procession. And soon after he saw a tall human, no, he remembered, a giant kin, a marshal he remembered from the army. And occasionally, the guy who guarded events like these.
Havoc kept close, his iron-encased fists ready to assist, a bit of goodwill from the guards was never a bad thing.
In his long and violent life he was a lot od things. A craftsman. A merchant. When he learned about surface, he disliked the chaos of human cities, the dirt and smell. There was a minor skirmish with clans, dwarves versus orcs with some human army involved. He didn't follow all the reasons or politics behind it. Typical, really, but he wanted change from human bustle and signed in. As all dwarves, even not trained as a soldier, he was formiddable in a phalanx.
Everything changed after that one, when he became a mercenary and one job required him to travel in a ship. The freedom. The quiet of the wind and waves. The dangerous, but closely knit group of sailors that literally depended for their lives on one another...he learned. The learning was tough, more often than not, it involved fists, whips, clubs or knives.
His natural resilience and stocky build meant advantage, but still, when he went ashore he would take his old armor and put it on. Thus, ironskin. And when the sun disapeared, the crew, superstitious lot they were, rushed to their various temples to pray or to taverns to drink before the world ends. Which left Havoc strangely alone. So he joined the procession. And soon after he saw a tall human, no, he remembered, a giant kin, a marshal he remembered from the army. And occasionally, the guy who guarded events like these.
Havoc kept close, his iron-encased fists ready to assist, a bit of goodwill from the guards was never a bad thing.
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