The Thunder Smith

"Or with such… interesting company."

Turning, Ora realied he was looking at Arion and she coulnd’t help but give a small frown. "Not so loud, please, Gorim," she urged as she looked back at her old friend. "It is simply Ora, now. I do not wish to alert my hunters to my presence."

"Bounty hunters?" he asked, to which Ora nodded. "I guess he should be worried, but I am pleased to see you are being careful, even if you are traveling with questionable characters."

The she-Dwarf rolled her eyes, but didn’t outrightly insult him in reply. Gorim Rockbearer was an old friend - a very old friend - whom she respected greatly. Ora had known him as long as she had been alive, providing council to her father. He had also been her tutor at one time in politics and war tactics and by far her favourite considering how boring the subjects could have been.

He had been responsible for Ora escaping Aglarond. With the help of another of her father’s friends, Gandalf the Grey Wizard, they had snuck into the deepest part of the prison where Orrak had been hiding and torturing her to sneak her out of the city right under his nose. She had not been in the best of health, or sound of mind, and Gorim had arranged for her to be taken to Lothlorien where lady Galadriel, her father’s oldest ally, watched over her recovery. Sometimes she wasn’t sure she still felt… whole, but she didn’t expect she ever would after the betrayal and loss she experienced. She owed Gorim her life, and more, but while she still considered him a dear friend she did not like the way he and his companions were glaring at Arion.

Ora knew that the Dwarves did not the Thundersmith. Many considered his work an affront to the craft out of jealousy and ignorance of his skill, but she didn’t care. Whatever friendship they had aside, he was a good blacksmith, and any warrior would be proud to carry anything he had made.

"Arion is fine company," she said. "We have been travelling together but a short time. He is headed for Bree, while I am going to the colonies in the Blue Mountains for work."

"And are you…?"

"No," Ora replied almost hastily. "No, we are friends."

"Very well," chuckled Gorim. "I have not often approved of your… dalliances in the past, but if you were - "

"We’re not."

"I would have something to say about it."

"As you always do, Gorim," she teased. "I assume you’re camping with your family? I’ll be sure to see you at the tavern later, but now I must tend to my things."

"Of course, princess," replied the other Dwarf with a small, respectful bow of his head with she immmediately struck him for.

"Gorim!" she hissed, to which he immediately apologized. "I will see you later - mind your tongue."

At that, she all but stalked off towards where Arion was still watching their exchange. Ora hoped dearly he hadn’t heard anything, and she offered him a small smile when she stood before him.

Nevertheless, his curiosity formulated int he arching of his brow as Ora stalked back towards him. A few backwards glances amid unintelligible grumbling. Apparently the elder dwarf had said something either infuriating or embarrassing or a combination of the two.  She resembled something akin to a Kottr that had been dropped into the Rhun Sea and Arion was forced to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out right at her. The smile she offered him when she spoke next was as forced as he had ever seen, his brow arching in response to her suggesting food.

Their banter returned Arion’s good mood just the day after they departed from where they’d burned the Brunlander, though there was a bit more of a… serious tone to their company. It was one thing to see each other on a regular basis, it was another to be around each other all day, eat together, and sleep around each other.

Not that Ora minded, she noted. In the past ten years of her exile she had never traveled with someone unless it was as a guard for a merchant caravan, and even then it was lonely. Being with Arion made it much less boring and she found she simply couldn’t worry about who might be hunting her or what sort of terrors her brother was inflicting on her people that moment - common thoughts when she was left with nothing but the recesses of her mind to occupy her.

They reached Greenstead two days later, and there was no small amount of odd looks tossed in their direction but Ora ignored it. She was accustomed to stares as there were very few Dwarves, let alone female Dwarves, who traveled around Arda and she returned none of them with so much as a glance as she and Arion made their way to the inn. The Waving Willow was a comfortable, clean establishment that Ora had stayed in before. The patrons were of a more respectable crowd than she typically was around, though none seemed to give her a second glance, and the innkeeper was a friendly old man. While Arion tended to Red and Wyndle she went in search of him, and he had no problems giving them two separate rooms (though she had to talk him into it at first, to her horror though the idea was tempting).

"I have our rooms," she said once she’d returned to Arion outside.

"Orana? Orana Aeducan?!"

Feeling as though she had been dipped in cold water, Ora paled, and her green eyes widened in horror as she looked to the blacksmith and then slowly turned to see a small band of familiar looking Dwarves approaching.

The sight of Ora and her friends had the blacksmith fighting a foreign twitching in his gut. He had not assumed for a moment they would remain traveling companions all the way to Bree. Ora was a hired sword, going where the work was; with no real set path.But regardless of that he had foolishly hoped it would have been longer than the mere few days they had spent getting here. Her company had been a pleasant change from the perpetual silence he was used to. Not that the she-wolf prattled because she did not and what silence had managed to worm its way into their conversations was neither uncomfortable or unwanted.

Mentally, Ora kicked herself. She was acting like a girl child with nothing better to do than to pine over a handsome lad, the slight flutter in her stomach at the sudden (genius) idea of asking him if they might travel together. They were headed north, after all, as she would be taking the same route as Arion in order to reach the Blue Mountains as the Shire was a much more pleasant route and much easier. In addition they would be safer (not that Ora was worried about her safety) but after the encounter Arion had she thought he might want some company. Especially with how it had seemed to affect him so deeply.

Ora had only visited the Shire a few times since her exile, and each time she had been pleasantly surprised by both the hospitality and the hostility of the Halflings who lived there, dependong on just where in the Shire she was. She had become acquainted with the Brandybuck and Took clans when they hired her to take care of some wolves causing trouble in the late autumn with the approaching winter after a bad harvest. It had been dangerous, far more dangerous than she might have expected for such an idyllic place, but she had completed the job and had earned somewhat of a rapport with the ‘Hobbits’. Another idea popped into her mind as she thought of perhaps staying in Bree rather than continuing on to the Blue Mountains, and again she berated herself. She needed work, not to follow around Arion like a puppy.

He was not one to have companions of any sorta beyond Wyndle. For reasons like the one that had occurred the previous evening. The blacksmith sighed low, steeling another glance at the dwarf as she moved about packing up the rest of her things. Being in his company for any longer than was necessary was dangerous. For himself and for her.  However he could not leave her to travel the road alone now either. While she was a well honed warrior, he would have had to been blind not to notice that, she was still small. And she would hold no chance if confronted with another party the same as they had met last night. She would be over powered in a heart beat and then they would have a life to hold over his head.

"hvat gera þú hugsa?" he questioned the great bay, nodding his chin towards the red pony. "gera vér fá dvegr eða hross með?"

Wyndle blinked lazily. Turning back to look at the small pony beside him and then back to watch the dwarf a moment. Arion turned as well, trying to decide what it was the horse was gauging. A heart beat later Wyndle nibbled harmlessly at the back of Arion's shirt  and the over sized man chuckled turning back again.

It seemed they both were exceptional at keeping secrets, and while the she-Dwarf was determined to keep hers she wasa more than curious about his.

She gave him a moment longer before giving his shoulder a small squeeze and moved to pack up her belongings. They hadn’t had the time to speak about their strangely coincidental run-in and Ora wasn’t sure she wanted to as despite the melancholy morning, she was… glad to see him again. It concerned her how much, but she tried not to dwell on it to much as she tossed the bloodied material they’d used as bandages into the fire.

Arion did not often change his path through Arda. And if he was honest with himself he was quite looking forward to spending the autumn season in the Shire. The Hobbits were a kind merry folk. And though they had been wary of him at first, over the years they had come to recognize and appreciate him. And now if he was even a day behind schedule he would find his space with in the market lined with orders. 

Her own kin entombed their bodies to return them to the stone. Mahal created them from it, sang them from it, and when they went to sleep until it was time to waken it was in the stone from which they had been carved by their creator’s voice. For their body to not be entombed was an insult, and condeming them to wander without ever reaching the Undying Lands. If she had died in Aglarond to her brother’ storture, she would have been tossed into a lava pit because - according to their laws - she was a kinslayer (even if she was innocent) and therefore no longer even a Dwarf.

Ora watched with interest and, after, wonder as Arion burned the body of the would-be assassin. It had been a long time since she had seen anyone work magic and she might have said something if she hadn’t heard his voice crack. She didn’t understand a word of Brunlander and she douted she ever would, but she didn’t need to in order to understand the emotion in Arion’s voice just then.

They hadn’t known eachother long, but Ora had never seen him look so… small.

"W-Brunlanders are stone, flesh, and as you call it earth but at the same none of them." he explained, hand slipping away from the vial at his throat. "There are no halls, no western lands to except them when they fade. They fade back into the nothingness they were created from. It is not often one of them fades, but when they do they are burned. And most of their ashes given back to the sands, save one singular amount that is passed to their next of kin to bare their memory. To be burned and their ashes not returned to the sands is a punishment kept only for the most vile law breakers, traitors and criminals. This...boy will find no rest for his deeds. Oblivion will not receive his soul and he will wander until the foundations of this world crumble into dust."