"The mace belongs to the troll. Good choice, he knows what he wants." Dorrik said, turning the weapon in his hands. "Crushing weight, unyielding. It will never tire, and neither will he. A healer who carries a weapon of war, there is a certain poetry in that, don't you think? He will mend what he can and break what he must."
He set the mace down and lifted the axe, running his thumb along the blade's edge. "The dwarf gets an axe, of course. I would not insult him with anything less. It will cleave through stone and steel as though they were air. His ancestors will feel its edge from the halls of their afterlife, and they will know their bloodline has not been forgotten."
Dorrik glanced at me, "I should know some of his ancestors… stubborn old goats, they would be smiling in their graves with the thought that I finally made a weapon for a dwarf."
