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Pure ferocity. That fit Oskar.
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Amnestria gave him another hard look, before turning back to the pan. “You want our history? Fine. Oskar’s a friend. I met him when he was training with my father. I met him again years later, met Marent, and we all got together to go adventuring. Eventually, we saved Orgumir’s life, and he became our patron.”
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“People could do that?
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“It doesna matter to him,” Marent’s voice broke into their conversation, seemingly unconcerned with their gossip about his oblivious husband. He was crouching in the entrance to the tent, watching them with a raised brow. “He’s aware that there’s some influence there, but honestly, what’s th'' point to knowin’ details? He knows what he can do, and does it well. th'' rest is moot.”
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anythin’. He was found on the road. His parents – the dwarves who raised him – are merchants. They were verra familiar wi’ everyone in every nearby town. They checked. Nobody was missin’ a baby. Nobody was missin’ at all. Nobody remembered travelers wi’ a baby. They kept checking through the years, especially when the lad grew old enough to start askin’ questions, wanting to know where he’d come from. Never found anything. So.” Marent raised a brow. “What’s your next step.”
“Aye then.” Marent stood and moved fully out of the tent, letting the flap fall behind him, dismissing the conversation. “Interview multiple large cities full o’ people t’ see if anyone remembers a baby forty-eight years ago. Ye’ll do what you feel best.”
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Silly dwarves, Amnestria thought in amusement. They were all like that, hiding their emotions behind stony expressions, even as they cracked jokes. Most people thought all dwarves were standoffish and reserved, but she’d traveled with her two companions for years, and had seen them drop their guard every now and then. They could convey volumes of information with a glance, a raised brow, or a few short words. Dwarves were all very reserved in public, but in private, with family, they would emote as well as any other race.