[Will Witfoot]

Alrik was nearly quivering with excitement as they neared the gates of the ancient citadel, but held his composure. What would the beardlings, let alone the more elderly dwarfs of the lot, think if they saw him give way to such impulses? They would laugh like drains.

In one hand he grasped his great axe, using its shaft as a walking stick of sorts. His bag was slung on his back and he was wearing his full suite of armour. On his head was perched the winged helmet, incorporating the terrifying war-mask he had made as a gesture of respect to all those ancient dwarfs who had fallen in the long years of war that had slowly eaten away at the dwarf race.
Suddenly there was a metallic ping a little to his left. Turning his head he saw an arrow rebound from Balin's helmet. He saw one of the young 'uns pick it up, and noticed the black feathers that had been used for the arrow flights. He did not need the collective cry of 'Orcs!' to tell him what they faced in the depths.

He reached up and pulled down the mask. It was made of the finest steel, polished to shine like a mirror, and carved in the likeness of a roaring, guttural stone statue. His beard flowed from beneath it like a white river, the gold and bronze rings gleaming in the late sunlight.
He gripped his axe with both hands, brandishing it aloft as a challenge to their hidden agressors.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!". The guttural roar rang from his throat. Atlast, a real fight!