[Saraphim]

Narin stood with his arms crossed, listening to the talk. He had felt his heart quake for a moment when he had learned of their destination. Moria was a place of legend, something to be mentioned in a song, or a grisly tale (true or not). It was not something to be taken lightly, this expedition to retake the lost halls of his forefathers.

For a moment, he doubted his choice.

Then he heard the words that strengthened his heart. True-silver. It was nonexistent in the Lonely Mountain, seen only in the ancient weapons and armor of the very wealthy. He longed to forge the light, shimmering metal into axes and swords, to make impenetrable helms and unstoppable arrows.

The desire to go flared inside him hotter than before. He roared along with his new comrades, eagerly anticipating the new home, and a new life.

A sudden worry, however, cut slowly through his joy. He heard another Dwarf speak, and heard the passion in his voice when he talked of Mithril. He knew from looking at him that he was a smith as well, though Narin did not know him by sight.

Narin quickly cooled his anger. There was no room for it this early into the expedition. His anger was unfounded, and, besides, there were, most likely, more than two metal smiths in the group. Narin eyed everyone suspiciously, but none stood out in his mind as much as the one who had spoken first.

Ah, well. He thought, Dwarrowdelf is a large place, by all accounts. Soon enough the demand for Mithril will be too great for any of us to handle alone.

But it still galled him to have competition, before they had even left.