"Don't forget yer boots," The dwarf said as Kael was about to leave the workshop.
Kael had already taken two steps toward the door, hand hovering near the latch like he could slip out before the old man changed his mind again. Andre's voice snagged him by the collar anyway, flat, rough, and annoyingly practical. Kael paused, then glanced back over his shoulder.
The dwarf was still planted on his bed like a grumpy gargoyle, pipe between his fingers, smoke crawling up toward the ceiling beams and staining the air with that bitter, burned-leaf smell.
Kael nodded to the old man who continued to smoke his own pipe and drink as he sat on his bed. Andre didn't bother standing. Didn't bother "wishing him luck." The closest the dwarf got to affection was a warning, and even that sounded like an insult.
