[Will Witfoot]

Alrik, overhearing Balin's words stepped up to the front of the group. His breath came out easy and his muscles felt only a little strain from the walking. Good, he thought. He had not entirely lost his strength.
"Theres naught we can do about that then, lord, except bash some heads." Alrik had never much liked elves. Their seemingly natural arrogance and haughtiness allways got him on edge, and even the memory of the wood elves fighting alongside dwarfenkind in the Battle of the Five Armies in no way disspelled his prejudice. "But in a way I agree with ye, lad." He nodded to Flori. "Whats the sense in inviting trouble? I say we could well go through the forest, we should just be carefull."

The younger dwarf did'nt seem to take offense at Alrik reffering to him as 'lad', which was only proper. As a race who gave great respect for age it was customary for elderly dwarfs to reffer to their youngers in such manner.
He took out a small keg of ale he had stored safelly in his backbag and popped open the cork. The golden brew flowed down his throat, sweeter than the crystal water of a mountain stream. Seeing Balin's dark look, Alrik passed it over to him.

"Care for some, lord?".