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You swiftly withdraw from the open and ascend the cliff opposite the tower, slinking along grooves in the stone until you are comfortably hidden behind a sizeable horn of worn grey rock a bit higher than the tower. Looking down at it rather than up, you enjoy a far better view. The tower stands alone on the mountain, seeming to meld with the mountain around it. You see a narrow path leading down the mountainside from what must be a door, a sizeable slab of wood sunken into the stone, alongside much smaller holes here and there from which light flows but no man nor dwarf could pass through - windows. Barely perceptible shadows move within, but aside from that there is little to see. Shifting accumulated snow and loose pebbles with your stomach, you settle down, rest your head upon the edge and wait for that to change.
Snow falls, clouds roll overhead, time passes. So long do you lay there that you almost drift off, but as you teeter on the edge of sleep, pondering such things as exotic meats and old riddles, the sound of a sudden impact echoes through the pass. Your eyes snap open, now as alert as ever, and you shake the thin layer of snow from your horns. The storm has mostly receded and your view is less obscured, allowing you to easily see the moving shapes below.
Immediately your eyes are drawn to a tall, four-legged beast standing on the slope. Your first thought is of the reindeer you are so familiar with, but there are a great many differences. It is a tall and stocky beast with sturdy hoofed limbs and a long, thick snout, puffs of steam rising as it exhales, yet no antlers nor horns crown its head. It is covered end to end with a coat of thick, shaggy brown fur to guard it from the chill, with a mane longer and lighter along running down its head and neck. This must be one of the horses that the two-legs ride upon, and for which the horse-men of the north are famed.
Around the horse stand more figures. First is the man known to you as Torold, immediately distinguishable by his clothing and his bow, and next to him is the manling Bodvar from his company, though now carrying himself awkwardly. You purse your lips. That makes for two accounted for, but where are the others?
Among them are two others unknown to you, both clad in fur-lined cloaks far finer than the stitched leathers and hides of the men you have stalked up to this point. One is about as tall as the bow-man and carrying a bow of his own, though of inferior standard to Torold’s, and the other is only slightly taller than the manling but far broader. At first you discount it for another instance of mannish young, but the manner in which he holds himself does not speak of youth or softness, nor does the heavy steel axe hanging from his hip. Then you notice a long braid of hair spilling from beneath the hood the likes of which you have often heard of and your heart jumps in your chest. This is no juvenile man. You are looking at a living dwarf.
